


Florabella

by supersoakerx



Category: Silence (2016)
Genre: Absolute crackfic, Blow Jobs, Catholicism, Communion | Eucharist, Cunnilingus, Dirty Dirty Bad Priest, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Garupe gets his dick sucked, Jam, Mass, Masturbation, Meeting the manwhore Garupe, Praise Kink, Prayer, Some manipulation, Vaginal Fingering, an apple, clitoral orgasm, guided masturbation, innocence kink, not by Reader, praying, would you call it flirting?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:41:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23543293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supersoakerx/pseuds/supersoakerx
Summary: You are a novice nun at the Monastery. Father Garupe has his eye on you.
Relationships: Father Garupe/Reader, Father Garupe/You
Comments: 67
Kudos: 104





	1. Taking the Veil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You meet Father Garupe on the day of your initiation ceremony. NOTE: No smut in this chapter.

The first time you see him is on the day of your official initiation into the convent. But it’s not when he officiates the ceremony, no, it’s not when he lays the veil over your head as he hums the rites in easy, confident, perfect, eloquent Latin.

No, it’s before, in the morning. It’s after prayers, after breakfast, when you’re heading down one of the many cold corridors that you still don’t know your way around properly. The Monastery is huge, with a church, two chapels, archives, libraries, a number of rooms for visiting school groups and whole wings of the place designated as sleeping quarters for the monastics who spend their days here. There are kitchens and lavatories of course, courtyards, stables, and a small plot for farming vegetables and raising animals for sustenance.

The Holy Fathers had their own wing at the far end the Monastery, near the church, which was why you were so surprised to see him so far away from it.

It all happened when you heard the bang of one of the big oak doors open, just up ahead and to your right. The round iron handle clanked against the solid wood as one of your Sisters rushed out of the room, hurrying away in the opposite direction, where the corridor opened in an archway to one of the courtyards.

You stop in your tracks, expecting to hear the door close, and waiting, waiting, waiting when it doesn’t.

Because then. He’s there.

Father Garupe steps out of the room, his head turned away from you as his eyes follow the nun rushing down the corridor. His long body is encased by his black robes, his chain of rosary beads hanging at his hips. He turns his head back to centre and you are graced with the sight of his elegant profile. He rubs under his nose, like he’s itchy, perhaps, but then his hand slows and he holds his finger there, rests it on his top lip, and it looks like he inhales.

You gasp and he whips his head to the left, sighting you, and you cough, trying to cover the sound you made that gave away your presence.

His eyes squint for half a second, and he turns on his heel to face his whole body towards you, the width of his shoulders almost blocking out all the light from the end of the corridor.

He takes a single step towards you, and you want to run.

He folds his hands behind his back and stalks closer to you, his rosary sweeping across his robes with the movement of his legs. His boots hit the cold stone floor and the sound echoes around you.

Soon, too soon, sooner than you could have prepared for he was standing not even one metre away from you, gazing into your face, a mildly amused expression playing at his features.

You feel like you should apologise. You don’t know why. He was definitely doing something he shouldn’t have been doing, but it feels like you’re the one about to be in trouble. You can feel yourself staring, something stirring in the pit of your stomach, as you take in his eyes, nose, cheekbones. His plush, pink lips. His full, thick hair. The sheer size of him, standing tall and high and broad. He was slender, but not too skinny. Like maybe he was made of hard, lean muscle under his many layers…

“Good morning, Sister,” he breaks into your thoughts and you almost jump. _You_ should not have been thinking _any_ of those things.

“Good morning, Father.” You can’t look away from his eyes, even though every muscle fibre in your body is telling you to.

The corners of his mouth pull into the hint of smile. “I am Father Garupe.”

Your eyes flick down his mouth, his big beautiful lips teasing a smile and unbidden, the very tip of your tongue pokes at the top of your bottom lip before you close your mouth tight and swallow.

Something crackles in his eyes. He says, “How shall I address you, Sister?”

You stutter over your words, shaken that he has to prompt you to continue with even simple introductions, “oh, F-Father, I am Sister,” you stop yourself, about to accidentally say your name. Well, it’s not _your_ name anymore, not really. Not from today. In a few hours, you will give away the name you were born with and be known only by the services you will perform in worship of Christ’s house, and His alone.

You recall how you will be referred to, from now on, and offer it up to him. “I am Sister Flora. I tend to the gardens, and the fruit trees.” He looks at you expectantly, and you splutter out, “Father,” feeling heat rising in your cheeks. How could you forget to properly address him like that?

Father Garupe tilts his head up, and back down, in a single, slow nod. He doesn’t take his eyes off yours the whole time. “Ah. Flowers and fruit. Some of nature’s prettiest things,” he takes a small step closer, “pleasing to the eye, but, such nourishment too, no?” He takes another step closer to you. You don’t seem to realise it, he notices, you don’t step back and you don’t shy away. Perfect. Another one.

You nod your head slowly in answer, and say “yes, Father.” He seems closer now. When did that happen? “Very,” you breathe the word, and without even knowing you’re doing it, you ever so slightly lean in to him, “fulfilling.”

Father Garupe’s mouth tilts in a lazy half smile, his eyes as hot and rich as melted chocolate. His voice is deep when he speaks again, “You are taking your veil today, Sister Flora?”

“I am, Father,” you reply, unable to stop yourself getting all caught up in him.

“Good,” he says, dropping his voice low and leaning his face closer to yours, “I look forward to seeing you again.”

Your lips part as you draw in a small, quiet breath, and Father Garupe leans away from you, breaking the spell.

He stands up straight to his full and towering height and walks straight past you, leaving you wiping your damp palms on your habit and trying to steady your shaky breathing.

You continue on your way down the corridor as his footsteps fade in the distance, trying to ignore the persistent ache at the apex of your thighs.


	2. The Serpent's Deception

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Father Garupe persuades you to come to him in the confessional. NOTE: No smut in this chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Among those who chaunted the praises of their God so sweetly, there were some who cloaked with devotion the foulest sins." - The Monk, Matthew Lewis, 1796

Later that night, well after your initiation ceremony and after the lanterns and torches bathed the old stones of the Monastery in warm glowing gold, Father Garupe finds himself one of your Sisters.

He finds her lagging behind the others, separates her from them, and when they all clear off he lures her through a dimly lit tunnel to a small, dark room.

He’s got them all mapped out: all of the passages, tunnels, hidden entrances and secret exits. He has memorised them over the years, knows them like the back of his hand. He has made use of each and every one of them at some time or another, and the small pockets of privacy they lead to.

This Sister, she wasn’t particularly special, not particularly gifted. He sees now, as she’s on her knees before him, why he didn’t quite remember her name, even though she vividly remembered him. She _remembers_ him almost daily.

“Faster. _Faster_ ,” he says down to her. At this rate, he’d be here all night, and not in a pleasurable way.

He closes his eyes and lets a deep sigh escape through his nose, lips pursed. Meeting you earlier today had whetted his appetite, and he’d hoped he could delude himself tonight.

He’d hoped he could find a Sister, any Sister, it didn’t really matter. They were all starting to look the same to him, until you.

But he’d hoped he could find for himself just one of the many available offerings here, and release the frustration that had been building in him since he found you in the cold stone corridor that morning.

He’d wanted to imagine that the touch he feels is yours, the lips he feels are yours, and the small, warm hand stroking his urgent need is yours.

His eyebrows furrow over his closed eyes as he imagines that the hot, wet mouth wrapped around him is also yours. He sees your big eyes watering, your lips stretched around his cock, your tongue and cheeks and throat coaxing him towards ecstasy.

It’s this that sends him spilling into Sister Whatever’s mouth.

****

Two days later, you encounter him at the North Chapel. The morning is crisp and fresh, sweet birdsong flutters on the air, dewy grass crunches beneath your feet. You rose early for your devotions this morning, and so you walked alone, with none of your Sisters to accompany you. You hadn’t slept very well, since…

Father Garupe is exiting the chapel as you enter it, and you meet on the steps.

“Good morning, Sister Flora,” he says, standing two steps above you and clasping his hands behind his back. As if he wasn’t tall enough.

“Good morning, Father Garupe.” Your voice sounds small even to your own ears. Images of his face had flashed in your mind almost on the hour, since you met him, and at night it was even worse. But your recollections compared nothing to seeing him again, seeing him in the flesh.

“You are committed to your morning prayers, Sister.” The way you said his name, he immediately wonders how you might sigh, whisper, moan it, and he _must_ keep you talking, just in case you say it again.

It takes you a second to realise he’s said something you need to respond to. A beat passes and he raises his brows at you, tilting his head down just slightly. He’s waiting.

“I, yes, Father,” you stammer, then more confidently, “When I cannot sleep, when I have trouble taking rest I find solace in… my spirit is quieted by making my devotions.” It’s hard for you to maintain eye contact with him.

Garupe hums in agreement, so deep and low it almost reverberates through you. He steps down one step. “The world of sleep and dreams can be elusive. What is it that so tortures you at night, dear Sister?”

You’re not altogether certain that he’s allowed to call you that, and the penetrating gaze of his deep, dark eyes steals your breath. “I find myself… Father, I…” You try to put the words together in your head: maybe if you told him, if you laid it all bare before him, he could show you how to use your faith to bolster your mind, your body against such wicked and unwanted intrusions.

It sounds foolish even in your thoughts. You don’t know why, you don’t know _him_ , but something is telling you—your instinct, perhaps—that Father Garupe would do no such thing. You push it away.

“I am distracted, Father,” you settle on saying, your eyes flitting between his and the ivy-clad sandstone wall behind him.

He takes another step down, filling your vision and brooking no more space between you, and he relishes your sharp intake of breath. Every word you’ve said has licked up his spine deliciously, but it is too soon for him to strike. He knows already the kind of girl you are: knows you will need more time, more delicate persuasion, and for a prize such as yourself he knows it will be worth it.

He makes sure to school his features, his tone of voice, into one of mild confusion, bordering on annoyance. “You have not had your veil for even one week, Sister Flora, and yet you are _distracted_? How can this be?”

He stands so close, too close, on the step above you that the heat of his body radiates off him. He is not impressed, and you know for a certainty that you absolutely cannot, and must not, tell this man the shameful truth of your nocturnal disgrace. You cannot, _must not_ , tell one of the Holy Fathers that you have lain awake these past two nights possessed by a need, an ache so desperate that it made you sweat and curse and toss and turn in your bed too small and creaky, sheets too stiff and itchy, tunic too heavy and hot.

You stammer and stutter, unable to form words.

Garupe revels in it. He sees it in your eyes, in your face: he sees your struggle. He watches as your eyes dart around to look at anything but him, as you wring your hands together, as you bite your lip and furrow your brow.

He says, “You need guidance, dear Sister,” and heat trickles through his limbs as you stop fidgeting, your shoulders relax, you gaze up at him with parted lips and wide eyes. “You must rid yourself of these distractions, if you are to be of service. That is what you want, is it not?”

You nod eagerly, daring to believe that Father Garupe has your best interests at heart, smothering the single dissenting voice that whispered to you from the depths of your mind.

He hums in approval, gives you a small, easy, understanding smile, and steps onto your stair, standing right next to you. He’s almost touching you, his body almost pressing against yours.

He leans down ever so slightly and says, deep and low, “I can help you. I can guide you.”

He can help you. He can guide you. His words wash over you and a weight lifs off your shoulders: you let out a relieved sigh.

Garupe is delighted, deep in his dark soul. He keeps the smile from his face, and even from his voice when he croons, “come to Confession, Sister. Come, yes?”

You turn your head to the left to face him. You breathe out the words, “Yes, Father,” and he simply smiles, nods, and proceeds down the stairs, walking away.

****

The setting sun streaked the sky in shades of magenta and lilac. A gentle breeze rustled the hem of your habit around your ankles, and felt cooling across your wrists where you’d pulled your sleeves up. The orchard was one of your favourite places in the whole of the immense Monastery: apples, grapes, figs, plums, pomegranates, tomatoes and all types of berries all grew on trees and vines. The smell was sweet and heady, coupled with the earthy richness of damp and fertile soil. It smelt of life, of beauty.

You were sincerely thankful for your task this evening: thankful for the respite it granted you as the sun started to settle itself behind the horizon for the night.

In truth, you did not join Father Garupe at Confession. Not that day, or the day before when you had met him on the steps of the North Chapel.

You couldn’t bring yourself to face him, not after...

You survey the apples on the small trees before you, plucking only the plumpest, heaviest, fullest of the offerings, those coloured a rich, deep crimson and almost bursting with tart and juicy sweetness. You let your mind wander.

Your thoughts drift directly to him, unbidden.

You remember being in the library, where all was quiet except for the scuffle of shoes on stone, the turning of pages, the scratching of quills on parchment paper. You were studying a piece of scripture and he’d brushed past you, grazing your arm with his own. ‘My apologies, Sister Flora,’ he’d whispered, and something about his hushed breath made your heart flutter in your chest. He’d walked away and you noticed some of the other novices averted their gaze, eyes darting to the floor or their pages, and some of the elder nuns pursed their lips and hardened their eyes as he passed by.

You remember rushing from the dining hall, late for a meeting with Mother Superior, when you had almost run right into him. He’d steadied you with a warm hand on your shoulder and a reassuring smile. He’d told you to ‘be on your way now, dear Sister,’ and squeezed your shoulder before dropping his hand down your arm and walking away. You’d stumbled into Mother Superior's office, unable to explain your lateness or why you looked so flustered. You’d feigned an upset stomach. It wasn’t entirely a lie.

You remember, in a gesture so innocuous but so brazen at the same time, Father Garupe had placed his hand at your lower back as you walked into one of the newly converted classrooms. It was your first time administering to a school group, and being a novice, you were the last to file into the room behind the other nuns. As you stepped closer to the threshold, he’d placed his big warm palm to your back and murmured, ‘good luck, Sister,’ and just as quickly he took his hand away, before anyone could see.

Without even realising it, you’ve already half-filled your basket with the ripest apples in the orchard, the sudden weight of it bringing you out of your recollections.

Each and every time you’d seen Father Garupe, his face, his long, tall body and his sheer presence all stirred something within you. It was something you had vowed to not ever pursue, something you had taken an oath to forego. It set you on edge and made you uneasy.

You replay his words in your head, that you need guidance, that he can help you, and a heavy, sick, sinking panic settles deep in your gut as an equally powerful hot, dark feeling rises within you and licks at your bones.

He can guide you, so he says, but you don’t think you can trust him. What’s more, you don’t even know if you can trust yourself.

A mere four days have passed, but the warring sides within you make it feel like forty.

“Sister Flora,” speaks a voice from behind you. It’s said, you imagine, like a lover.

“Father Garupe,” you say, turning to face him. His black robes shroud his slender frame perfectly, and yet again his arms are clasped behind his back.

“It is getting late,” he begins to walk over to you, step by long, slow step. “You should be inside with your Sisters, at supper, no?” He stops. One more step and he’d be just about on top of you.

“I…” you start, but you can feel it again, rising and heating you up. You clear your throat and try again. “The apples are ready, Father. They are… ripe for picking.” Your fingers flex on the basket handles. You hold it on front of you, rest it on your front like a shield.

Garupe hums, smiles a little, eyes flicking down to your half-full basket of ripe, red, shiny apples. “I admit,” he glances back up to you, “it was the lure of nature’s sweetness that lead me here. I craved the scent of it,” he takes that one last step closer, grabs an apple straight from your basket, holds it up to his face and takes a deep breath in, eyes locked with yours, “and the taste.”

“Th-they are in seas—” you try to make this conversation something it isn’t, but he cuts you off mid-word.

“I thought I might find you here, Sister.” Garupe delights in your wide eyes and your slightly parted lips.

You try to talk, feeling your mouth making different shapes as you struggle to come up with words.

“You have not come to see me.” Garupe interrupts your attempt at speaking and his gaze bores down on you: it irritates him that the only thing between his body and yours is that _damned_ wicker basket.

Your mind betrays you immediately. He knows, you think, he knows, he knows—it repeats in a whisper over and over and you feel yourself break out in a hot sweat.

“Why?” he asks, inspecting the apple for a moment and then locking eyes with you again. “You have had the time, between your tasks. Why have you not come, Sister Flora, when you told me that you would?”

You clench your fists tighter on the basket’s handles, feeling your fingers start to tremble and not wanting him to see. You had no answer for him, no excuse: not one that he could hear nor one you could say aloud.

It doesn’t show on his face, but a dark glee is flooding Garupe’s body, his mind. He knows what has become of you, knows exactly why you have not met him in the confessional. “You are trembling, Sister,” he says, tinging his voice in feigned concern and letting it paint his features. “Eat,” he says, and holds the apple out to you.

You don’t know what comes over you, you feel almost hypnotised by him, by the gleaming crimson apple he holds aloft. With your eyes locked on his you lean in, press your lips and teeth to the fruit, and take a bite.

Father Garupe smiles as you lean away, licking at the drop of juice that threatened to run down your chin as you chew and swallow.

Then, he holds the fruit up to his mouth, his top row teeth resting inside the chunk you took out of it, and the crisp crimson apple snaps, hisses, crunches as his teeth pierce through the skin, sink into the flesh, and he bites, pulls, tears away and chews on the sweet, juicy mouthful.

His eyes don’t leave yours the whole time, and he makes a contented moan: delicious.

And the words tumble from your lips.

“Oh, Father, I. I f-fear that my thoughts, my feelings,” you gaze into his jet black eyes, your heart pounding so hard and fast you can hear it in your ears, “might lead me to stray from my path and I… it, fills me with anguish,” you take a breath, “Father.”

You drop your head, relieved to finally expel your distress from its hiding place deep in your chest. You could almost cry from it.

Father Garupe puts a finger under your chin, tilts your head up and gazes into your watery eyes. “Come to Confession, Sister Flora. Whatever it is, whatever it may be, sink to your knees and confess to me. Tell me your sins, _florabella_ , and let me absolve you.”

All you can manage to do is nod as your insides twist and flutter. He can't, he shouldn't be touching you and, what did he just call you?

“Yes?” he prompts.

“Yes, Father Garupe,” you murmur. He takes his finger from your chin and takes another bite from the apple. He chews it slowly, deliberately, eyes latched onto yours, and you feel as though you might combust from the intensity of his gaze. You can't look away.

“Very good, Sister Flora,” he says, and it sounds so formal now. Then he turns, and walks away. You hear a faint snap-hiss as he eats more of the apple.

****

It’s late. Your path is lit by candlelight, then moonlight, then lanternlight as you hurry through the Monastery.

The confessional stayed open for one hour after supper and after prayers, for Sisters who found themselves overcome with the need for repentance and forgiveness before they close their eyes to the world for the night.

Sisters like you.

Your footsteps beat on the stone in time with your thudding heart. You know he is there, he is waiting for you.

After you took a bite from the apple in his palm, you knew you had to meet with him. You knew, finally, you would.

You reach the door of the confessional, a place that once held a sense of peace, hope, the weightlessness of unconditional forgiveness. Once.

You grip the cold metal handle in your sweating palms, grasping it tightly. You take a deep, shuddering breath, push open the heavy wooden door, and step inside.


	3. The Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Under the cover of darkness you meet Father Garupe at Confession. NOTE: Smutty chapter.

The stone room is small, cold and dark, lit only by two wall lanterns.

There is a wall in front of you, with a small red square of fabric that hides the latticed partition, shielding you from Father Garupe on the other side. Beneath that is a wooden ledge, the top edge dulled and stained from generations of Sisters’ hands clasped in prayer on it. On the ground below that is a low ottoman, the once vibrant red velvet now worn thin and grey with use. To the left of that is a wooden bench that rests in the corner, against the back wall. It must be for elder Sisters, whose knees are not what they used to be.

You shiver from the chill in the air and take your place kneeling on the ottoman, clasping your hands on the wooden ledge worn smooth, eyeing the soft red fabric that hangs in front of your face.

This scrap of curtain is the last thing between you and Father Garupe, and whatever will come after. You take a deep breath and slide it open.

“Father Garupe,” you say into the latticed insert cut into the wall, tremors of anxiety running through your body.

A beat passes, and then another. Perhaps he is no longer here, and you will be forced to face another nigh-

“Ah, Sister Flora.” Garupe finally replies, and smirks when he hears your sigh of relief from the other side of the wall. “It pleases me that you see reason, Sister. It is right that you have come to me. It is good.”

His words resonate within you. It’s good, it’s right, you _should_ be here, with him, like this.

“I see, Father,” you take a steadying breath, “I see that I need your guidance. I know that you can help me, Father Garupe, and I n-need you.” You feel heat rising in your hands and your chest at your admission.

Garupe knew it wouldn’t take long, and it didn’t: at your words he feels himself stirring beneath his robes. He hums in understanding, “Tell me, dear Sister, have you slept?”

“Fitfully, Father, in parts only,” you wring your hands, “it wears on me, Father, I can feel my mood, my patience with my Sisters... It’s slipping. I feel so confused, I feel at war with myself, like I don’t even know my own mind. There are thoughts, I, thoughts that test me and test my fervour.”

“And for these thoughts, you have tried prayer?” Garupe already knows the answer, but always enjoys drawing this part out, and he widens his legs in his seat, parts his robes, brings his palm to rest on his inner thigh, fingertips grazing his hardening length through his slacks.

“Yes, Father!” you cry desperately, and a pulse of arousal shoots through him at your pitch, your volume. You continue, sounding more settled, “every night, but it doesn’t go away. It lingers, Father. It persists.”

Your words feed his monstrous desire: he knows you are inching closer and closer your breaking point. He hums like he’s pondering something, considering a terrible problem. “What exactly _is_ ‘it’, Sister? Is it those _distractions_ you spoke of, in the orchard?”

“Yes,” you breathe, recalling all the horrid thoughts you’ve had, and all about _him_. After a pause you say, “help me, Father, please.”

Garupe runs his palm over his half-hard length. “You told me your fear, that your distractions may lead you to sin, Sister,” a pause, and then, “tell me, have you sinned, florabella?”

Your eyes go wide. He said it again, the name he called you in the orchard. You realise now, he only ever says it when you’re completely alone with him, a thing shared between just the two of you, for no one else to see or hear. Like a secret.

Voice wavering, you answer him. “Only in my thoughts, Father. Thoughts that are… that must be, _impure_. I know they are wrong, but I cannot train my mind away from them, and when I let them happen I _feel_ something,” you drop your voice to a whisper, “ _inside_ , Father.”

“Inside?” Garupe asks, feinging concern while he runs his fingertips over the outline of his erection.

“It’s like a, like a throbbing, or like a pulse. It makes me want to… and I know I can’t, I know I shouldn’t, Father but I… I just… it’s almost painful, Father.” You drop your head, shame filling you.

“Sister Flora,” he tisks, sighs, “This is the struggle you grapple with, every night? Poor girl, you are being torn apart. This is most grave, dear Sister.”

Looking down at your hands, hot tears prick your eyes and your lower lip trembles. At best, he pities you. At worst, he’s disappointed in you. You’re doomed.

Father Garupe’s voice breaks through your thoughts, deep and low, “do you feel it even now, florabella, as you kneel?”

Your eyes, shiny with unshed tears, flick back up to the partition, hoping to see even a glimpse of him. All you can see is the faint glow of candlelight, just like before. You swallow. “Yes, Father,” you whisper earnestly, heart pounding. Maybe he wasn’t disappointed after all.

Garupe keeps his voice low. “Would you allow me to tell you,” he pauses, he can almost hear your heartbeat thudding in your chest, “a secret?”

“A s-secret, Father?”

“Yes, just for you and me,” he pauses, listens for your quiet little hum of assent, and continues on, “these thoughts, feelings… this agony that keeps you awake at night. It makes you toss and turn in your bed, no? It makes you sweat. It even,” he drops his voice, “makes you curse, doesn’t it, Sister?”

Your thoughts fight each other in your mind: how did he know? How could he know? Was he _watching_ you? “I-I,” you stammer, “Father—"

“I know of this torment, Sister. I have felt it. Remember this, florabella: I can help you. I can guide you.”

Everything stops. Your swirling mess of thoughts, your breath, time itself. “Y-you, F-Father? You know of th-this?” Your breath caught in your throat, your palms starting to sweat and shake where they grasp each other tight, your pulse throbbing between your—

“Oh, Sister,” Father Garupe sighs, “there’s a great many things I know. Tell me, do you tremble? Does it ache, florabella?” Images of you flash in his mind, and he feels his hard length throb and drool beneath his slacks. He places his hand over it, squeezes it in his palm.

“Yes, Father,” it comes out in a sigh, “hh-how do I stop it? What must I do?”

The panicked desperation in your voice thrills him. _This_ is what he loves. It’s the naïve, innocent purity he craves: he wants to tempt it, seduce it, possess it. And you were almost there.

He schools the smirk from his face. “You must trust me, florabella,” he says, and he waits with delighted anticipation as the wheels turn in your mind.

From the moment you saw him, something compelled you to Father Garupe. There was something strange and horrible, something lurid and dark about him that repelled you and attracted you in equal, warring measure. He was poison, but he was the cure too.

You have no choice. “I do, Father,” you pause, take a shuddering breath. “I trust you, Father Garupe.”

The words feel heavy, taste bitter on your tongue, but there was a part of you, buried deep, that flared and bloomed, as hot and dangerous as fire and as dark and sticky as molasses.

Garupe makes his voice firm. “Sit on the bench, Sister. Spread your legs.” He pulls at the high neck of his black robe and works at the top few buttons, undoing them.

“On the bench, Father?” you flick your gaze to the wooden bench to your left, unsure.

“Go on, florabella,” Garupe replies, fingers teasing over his long, thick cock again. He hears you shift and shuffle, the rustle of your habit and the little creak of the wood as you sit yourself down on the bench. “Spread them wider,” he says, knowing without even needing to see you that you are too modest for your own desires. Only he knows what you really need.

You shift your legs as far apart as they can go, heat coursing through you all over again. The stone wall at your back is hard, but feels cooling.

“Lift up your habit, Sister. Hold it up at your waist.”

His voice feels even closer now, somehow. You realise that if the wall between you crumbled, you would be sitting right next to each other, so close he could whisper into your ear.

You bunch up your tunic and the layers underneath, exposing your legs in a way you hadn’t done since before joining the convent. Your pulse races as the cool air tickles your skin, making it break out in gooseflesh.

“Very good,” Father Garupe murmurs when he hears the rustle of fabric cease. “Now, which hand do you write with, Sister? Left or right, to make your letters?”

You answer him, and he can hear your heartbeat in your voice.

Garupe hums. “Take that hand, and run your fingers over your undergarments. Just lightly over the top, perhaps like you are petting a kitten, Sister, softly. Gently.”

Your fingers shake as you inch them down between your spread legs. You shake off the whispers in your head telling you: don’t do this, you must not, it is forbidden, stop, leave.

You gasp when your fingertips touch the flimsy, damp fabric: you can feel the outline of your folds through it and the heat radiating from your flesh startles you. “Father,” you start, letting your fingers dance over your flesh as _something_ seeps through the linen, “w-what—why—”

“What do you feel, florabella?” He knows, of course he knows, but he wants to hear it.

“I,” the first thing you think of is the _relief_. Your soft, tender touches, the thin linin gently rubbing against your sensitive folds, it makes you sigh.

You finish the sound before you can stop yourself: your eyes go wide in shock and you rip your hand away, snap your thighs together and lurch forward in your seat, folding in on yourself. “Father, I can’t,” you pant, the throbbing returning tenfold, “that was wrong, I should not—”

“Quiet, Sister.” His voice is firm, tight. He hears your panting, almost hyperventilating, and knows he has to be so careful here, so delicate.

He softens his voice. “My florabella,” he starts, gauging your breathing, “do you think I would lead you to do wrong, sweet Sister?”

You shake your head, arms clutching each other. Remembering he can’t see you, you whisper, “no, Father.”

“No. That’s right. Now, _you_ sought _me_ out, Sister. Sometimes, I feel, you _summoned_ me before you. You came to me, and you even said yourself, tonight, you need me, you need my guidance. Did you not say such things?”

“I did, Father,” you mumble, closing your eyes to keep the hot tears of frustrated shame from falling.

“And you know, Sister, you know in your heart, it is true, no? You _need_ me.”

“It,” you let out a shaky breath, “I know it. It’s true, Father. I need you.”

“So why did you stop?” It’s all he needs to say. He’ll wait, now. He’ll let it hang in the air as you tease and puzzle it out. He’s knows you’re dangling off the edge, holding on by the last of your fingers: ready to drop and fall into his warm and waiting embrace, ready to sink and slip into the darkness of his depravity.

You stumble over your words, trying to rationalise everything you know, everything you’ve been told and taught, everything you believe about your body, your soul, your place in this world, this life.

In a matter of seconds, you try to make sense of it all, alongside the feelings, the relief and the pleasure, that your own fingers between your legs just provided you. The pieces don’t fit together. You can’t make it work. You took your vows to the Church, you know all the sins just as well as you know all the sacraments, but those few moments…

Your voice is small, quiet. “I was afraid, Father.”

Father Garupe sighs, “fear,” he pauses, “dear Sister Flora. What have you to fear? Why would our Lord God give you this body, make you in this image, if he did not want you to experience the exquisite pleasures of it?”

Your eyes flit back and forth as you piece his words together, your breathing slowing to normal.

Garupe’s fingers twitched to touch you, to stroke you and slide his fingers inside you as he speaks of the pleasures of the flesh. If he gets this right, maybe he soon will. “You are told that your body is a thing of evil, a vessel for the Devil, a wicked and wanton thing… but it is not proven, is it?”

“I, n-no. No, Father.” Why was he making so much sense?

“What you felt just now, Sister, at your own hands, was it bad? Was it evil?”

You say with something like a sense of certainty, “no, Father.”

“No. It was _good_ , wasn’t it? You are safe here, with me, aren’t you?”

Good. Safe. “Yes, Father.” He was right.

A moment passes. “My florabella,” he says again, his deep voice was like dripping wax, hot and melting, and it flowed through you down to your bones. Just above a whisper, he murmurs, “touch yourself for me.”

He can help you. He can guide you. You’re safe with him. “Will you teach me how, Father?”

If he was a better man, Garupe is certain he would have heard angels sing. His erection was straining painfully, begging to be freed, touched, brought to release.

But he can be patient. “Yes, sweet Sister, I will teach you, if you so wish.” He knows you do, but maybe you’ll—

“Please, Father Garupe, please.”

beg. It was perfect, your voice was so soft and sweet, he felt himself weeping from the tip of his cock.

“Your linens, Sister, your undergarments. Take them off, leave them on the floor.”

You shift, fabric rustling, doing as he says.

“Sit, florabella, like you did before.” He palms his stiff length, careful not to make any sound.

You rest on the wooden bench, spreading your legs and leaning your back against the stone wall like before. You spy the ottoman, and get an idea.

Garupe hears the scrape of wood on stone, more rustling of clothes, something drops to the floor. “What are you doing, Sister?” he asks, intrigued.

You settle back down, finally completely comfortable. You sit like before, back against the wall and legs spread, but now you’ve slipped your shoes off, rested your bare feet on the ottoman, and at the last moment removed your veil from your head, shaking your hair free. “I’m ready now, Father. Tell me what I should do, how I should,” you take a steadying breath, “tell me how I should touch myself, Father.” Heat flushes your chest and neck, you can’t believe your ears. This still felt bad, wrong, sinful, but you let it, you sat with it. You surrendered to it. This is what Father Garupe told you you need. “Please.”

Garupe feels the Devil himself give him a clap on the back. A dark, twisted glee floods his body. He’s done it, you were gone, you were his.

“Put your hand between your legs again, florabella,” he hears more rustling. “Do you know what that is, that special place there between your thighs?”

“Nno, Ffather,” you stammer, your fingers playing over your bare lips, all puffy and hot and covered in… feeling them all… wet? Slippery? Does he know about this too?

Father Garupe hums. “We will call that… your cunt.”

“Cunt,” you try the word out, and Garupe’s face breaks into a roguish grin at the sound of it.

“Good. And at the top? Right at the very top of your slit. What is that?”

“I,” you start to say, dragging the tip of a finger up your silky folds, your _slit_ , he’d said, and when your fingertip grazes the hard little bud at the top you gasp in surprise, in pleasure. _This_ is what has been giving you so much grief.

“Ah. You found it,” Garupe smiles, “do you know what that is, florabella?”

You suck in a breath, “no, Father,” you nudge it and sigh, “what is it?”

Garupe can’t help himself, not now, not anymore with your breathy sighs and gasps. He dips his hand inside his slacks, gripping his throbbing cock. “I’ve heard it called a lot of things, sweet Sister. For now, we will call it your clit, yes?” He pulls his swollen need from his undergarments and makes a fist around it.

“Yes, Father,” you answer in a sigh, toying with your bud.

“What does your clit feel like, florabella? Run your fingers over it, but slowly. Be gentle.” His cock is thick and hot in his palm, and he squeezes it, suppressing a groan. “What does that feel like?”

“It feels, _oh_ ,” you moan, teasing your clit some more, “hard, Father.”

“Mmm,” Garupe moans in pleasure, imagining the look and feel and taste of it, but he masks his sound as a hum of understanding. “What else, sweet girl?”

“Mm!” you squeak as his words send a flutter through your—your cunt. “My clit is wet, Father, my fingers are slipping and sliding over it, so- _ohh_ , so easily.”

It’s like his heart stops beating. “Wet?” So much, already? You were worse than he thought. _Better_ than he thought. He’d underestimated you, and it thrilled him.

“I’m wet all over, Father,” you let out a breathy sigh, your fingertips brushing over your stiff bud, “my slit, too.” When he doesn’t say anything a flash of worry flares in you. “I-is that bad, Father? Should my cunt not be wet?” Was something wrong with you?

Father Garupe pulls his lips between his teeth, bites down hard as his nostrils flare, controlling the groan threatening to rumble out from the back of his throat. “You are a quick learner, florabella,” he can’t believe the words you’ve just said, so filthy dirty in your sweet little voice, not a hint of shame in it. “No, not bad. Not at all bad. You are a good, good girl.” He sucks his bottom lip into his mouth as he gives his thick length a slow, tight stroke.

You moan at his words, “thank you, Father.”

He lets your sweet sound wash over him. “Circle your clit for me, florabella, just one finger will do for now.”

You rub the pad of one finger in rings around your hard bud, and you gasp again. It feels, _oh_ , it feels-

“That’s it,” he murmurs in response to your gasp, “right there.”

You moan again, pleasure sparking and flaming deep inside you as you rub soft, light circles into your clit. It feels harder, stiffer than before, somehow.

“Just like that, sweet girl,” Father Garupe encourages you, slowly fisting his hot, heavy cock on the other side of the confessional partition. “How does that feel?”

“I, mmm, I like it, Father. It’s so lohh-lovely.”

Garupe hums again. “It is helping, no? Soothing your ache?” He has to stop himself from laughing at his own cheekiness.

“Oh yes, Father,” you moan, your head gently falling back to rest on the stones as you work yourself over, “yes, Father, so much, so much better.”

At your words, your moans, Garupe watches a pearly bead of cum weep from the tip of his cock. He grips his shaft tight, strokes upwards, squeezing more of it out of himself with his lips pursed in a tight line to keep from groaning. “Harder,” he rasps to you, “harder, and faster, Sister, and with two fingers now.”

You do as he says, increasing pressure and speed, relishing the heightened pleasure. “Oh, _Father_ ,” it comes out in a high moan.

Garupe bucks into his fist and murders a groan in his throat. “Up and down, now, Sister. Move your fingers up and down on your sweet little clit.”

You gasp out another moan as you do as he says, stroking and rubbing and feeling like you might bubble over, boiling hot.

Garupe hums, “your little clit must be so stiff and hard, no? Tell me.”

“Yes, so stiff,” you sigh, “Father, please.” Something is building and burning and coiling tight, like soon it will snap and break. You don’t know why, but you feel like you need him _desperately_ for something, anything, now.

“Soon, Sister,” he croons, and you whimper. “Side to side, now, left to right, and back.”

You change the movements of your fingers again, and your eyes flutter. Somehow, someway, you feel even slicker and sloppier than before.

“Father I, there is so much,” you gasp, sigh, “there’s too much…”

He lets you trail off, waits a beat, and says, “what words did I teach you, Sister?”

“Forgive me, Father, I… my cunt is so wet,” you manage to get out, more breath than voice.

Garupe, who has been stroking himself as you explore your cunt at his direction, under his instruction, following his words step by precious step, hears that and thinks he’s going to cum.

His roaming hand flies up to squeeze the head of his cock, uncomfortably tight in his fist, staving off the orgasm your words almost stole from him. He shivers, swallowing a growl. “That is only natural, Sister,” he rasps, “it will happen, when you are aroused like you are now.”

“It’s good?” you puff out in a breath, needing the warm touch of reassurance.

“So good,” his breath hitches, “you are a good girl, florabella.”

You hum in acknowledgement, feeling sweat bead at your hairline. Your nipples feel tight and stiff, your skin feels tingly and hot, something is building and soaring inside you. “F-father,” you gasp, “s-something’s, happening,” your voice is a high and tight squeak, “what do I, Father please,” you don’t even know what you’re asking for, “please, I,” and then-

“Stop.”

His voice is hard and firm and your fingers freeze.

That same thing that was heating you up and cresting inside you deflates, fizzles out, vanishes in a puff of smoke, leaving behind a throbbing so intense it’s almost painful and you whimper quietly, panting. You can almost believe your heart is beating between your legs.

Father Garupe hears your panting breaths, knows you’ve followed his order. “Very good, florabella.” In truth, it was a test. He was more than happy to let you make yourself cum, at this point he needs to hear it, but he wanted to see if you would listen to him. And you did, perfect thing you are.

He’s read manuscripts of what may happen when the sweet release, the bliss of an orgasm is prolonged, like he was doing to you now. How even more powerful they can be. So he says, “I must warn you, Sister Flora. What happens next, it may scare you. You may feel… overwhelmed. You may feel like something inside you is about to burst, or crash, or break. You must let it, Sister, yes?”

You swallow thickly. “I will, Father.”

He hums. “Tell me, which do you like best? Of your fingers on your clit?” He closes his eyes, imagines all the ways you’ve touched yourself, resumes fisting his thick and needy cock.

You pause a moment, considering. “I like the circles, Father,” you tell him, breathless, “it’s like everything combined,” you huff a small, quiet laugh.

Garupe smiles, committing your answer to memory before he replies, “Keep going, Sister. Touch yourself like that, and do not stop.”

“Yes, Father,” you say, and it ends in a moan as your fingers find your clit again, so stiff and swollen and covered in slick—all good things, according to Father Garupe.

You find your rhythm, your pressure, and the feeling is magnificent. Little sighs and breathy moans escape your throat, and in very little time you bring yourself right to the edge of _it_ , that hot bubbling bursting breaking feeling. “Father,” you gasp out, “Father, I feel it again.”

Garupe was slowly teasing and jerking his hard length, careful not to make any sound at all, as you played with yourself on the other side of the wall. He’s gotten quite good at it, over the years. “Yes, Sister, good. Very good, florabella. Keep going, do not stop, you are so close now.”

“What-what is—”

“You are going to cum, sweet girl. That is what you are making yourself do, with my help. You are going to cum, and it will feel _divine_. Are you ready?”

“I-I th-think so, Father,” you rock your hips into your own hand. Your pleasure was building and building and any second now- “c-can I do it? C-can I cum now, Father? Please?”

He can’t believe you: you said these things, truly unholy things, so easily. Like you didn’t even realise they were so bad. Like you genuinely trusted him. He grins darkly. “Cum, florabella,” he murmurs, “for me, now. Cum.”

Something _breaks_. Your orgasm tears through your whole body in waves and pulses and shudders of a feeling so spectacular, your legs shake and your vision goes blurry. You rock on that old creaky wooden bench as you ride out the roiling tide overwhelming your body. “Father, Father, Garupe,” you gasp out when you can. You needed to know he was still there.

Garupe listened intently to everything, biting his lip hard. Every sound, every pass of your slick fingers, every creak of wood, every breath. He needs to feel inside you, and he makes a promise to himself: the next time you cum will be at his hand.

When he hears you settle, he croons to you, “that was well done, florabella. Good.”

Your limbs feel light, liquid. A warm gentle hum thrums through your body, from your head to your toes. You feel, finally, at ease—if a little lightheaded. “Thank you, Father.” Your voice is breathy, pleased.

But Garupe… the Holy Father needs release. And he knows just what he’ll do to get it. “You will sleep well tonight, sweet Sister. I will find you tomorrow. Go, now.”

Something in the way he says that… in that moment you’re reminded of all the heavy dark feelings he raises in you. In a single moment, you feel like you must see him again, and also that you must not, ever, see or go to him again.

As you pick up your once discarded small clothes you realise, in the back of your mind, in the pit of your gut—you know which side will win out.

He hears the rustle of linen, snaps out, “leave them.”

You drop your undergarments to the floor, look to the glowing partition with mild alarm. “A-my apologies, Father.”

Garupe softens his voice, tries to take the frustration from it. “If you have stained them, Sister, it is best I take care of them. Be on your way now, florabella.”

Swallowing, you make sure every single other part of you is dressed perfectly. Fully clothed, you still feel naked without your linen underneath, and uncomfortably wet between your legs, down your thighs. But so, so contented. “Goodnight, Father,” you say as you get to the heavy oak door, the iron handle cold in your palm.

“Goodnight, my florabella.”

Garupe hears you exit the confessional and is immediately up and out of his side of the room. Walking around, through a corridor, taking a turn or two, he finally reaches the entrance to the confessional that the monastics use. He slips inside and spies your soiled linen on the floor.

He picks up your undergarments, holds them to his nose, and inhales. You have a heady, musky, sweet scent, and his eyes flutter.

He settles himself on the same wooden bench where you just sat and played and came, all at his instruction.

He fishes out his achingly hard cock and pumps it, harder and faster than before. He can be loud, now: he can be sloppy.

His fist slaps against his flesh as he beats his cock, holding your dirty garments up to his face, breathing you in. A few more pumps, and his cock is throbbing, twitching, drooling in his hand. He gasps: he’s close, he can feel it.

He holds your undergarments out in front of his leaking, desperate cock. He shudders, bucks his hips, and then-then-

He explodes, he _groans_ , coating your soiled linen in ropes of hot, sticky, thick cum.


	4. Say Your Prayers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Father Garupe finds your bedchamber, and finds his fingers a home between your thighs. NOTE: Smutty chapter.

You wake the next morning, gently rolling onto your side, slowly blinking awake. Breath comes from deep within your lungs, content, the hint of a smile playing on your lips.

His lilting voice replays in your mind, his instructions to help you touch yourse—

Your eyes snap open, you bolt upright in your creaky single bed, clutching the itchy blankets to your chest and breathing hard. You try to swallow but your mouth is suddenly very dry, and you feel hot—too hot—all over, and sick, deep in the pit of your stomach.

You kick the blankets off and jump out of bed, sweat beading as you pace your small bedchamber. He’d said you were safe with him, said he could help you and guide you and you’d let him, you’d _let_ him.

That sick, sinking feeling solidifies in your gut: a murky, swirling, nauseating chaos of shame and guilt and regret.

You have to see him again, have to bare your soot-blackened soul to him. He’ll forgive you, God will forgive you, this _one_ transgression. Surely…

 _No_. You cannot see him again. You cannot go to him again. A part of you knows this, a part of you that keeps trying to scratch and claw and scream its way inside your head: use your better judgement, remember your vows, trust your instincts…

Father Garupe is not a good man.

Father Garupe shared your agony, your pain, the depth of your desperate need.

Father Garupe is a bad, bad man.

Father Garupe showed you a pleasure you could never have conceived of without him.

The worst part of all of this—as you pull on your tunic and cap and veil and prepare to make your way to morning prayers—is not so much the shame of having… come undone, at your own fingertips, and his words… no, that was not the worst of it.

The worst part of all of this, is that you want to do it again.

**XXXX**

The mid-morning sun is warming, soothing, cleansing on your skin.

You’d managed to stay away from Father Garupe that morning: he didn’t lead prayers in the North Chapel (it was Father Rodrigues today) and he was surreptitiously missing from breakfast. You’d left the library just as he’d entered it, and ducked and weaved your way through the old stone corridors to find another room to study in, not daring to look back as footsteps followed behind you. As soon as you possibly could, you’d grabbed your wicker basket and headed into the orchard.

Standing amidst the sweet rows of berry vines, you close your eyes and tilt your head up to catch the golden rays of light and warmth on your face.

For a moment, for one whole, pure moment of lucidity, you forget feeling like you need to find him, seek him out, and confess to him again. You forget how both shame and frustration are at war within you. You forget that his face has played over and over in your mind since _before_ you opened your eyes from sleep earlier that morning.

You breathe in, deep, the heady scent of strawberries, raspberries, blueberries, blackberries filling your nose and lungs. You hold it, keep it in, counting to four before you release it in a long, slow exhale.

You commit to saying a special prayer of gratitude at evening prayers tonight, thankful for this small moment of sun and sweetness and peace.

“Sister Flora.”

Startled, you jump and lose hold of your basket, the wicker dropping to the ground and narrowly missing your feet. You spin around to face him, your heart racing at the sudden intrusion shattering the warm silence… an intrusion not entirely unwelcome. “Ffather-,”

He tilts his head to the side, piercing you with his gaze and it steals your breath, halts your words. He stalks towards you, arms clasped behind his back.

You tell yourself you want to take a step back, two steps, want to turn and run and get away from him. But your feet are as rooted to the ground as the decades-old vines planted around you, and like time itself, Father Garupe takes one relentless step after the other, closer, closer, until-

“Did you sleep well, florabella?”

He stops before you, his voice deep and dangerous, dark eyes locked with yours.

“Yes, Father,” you breathe.

“I thought you may have enjoyed a restful slumber,” a lazy, knowing half-smile plays at his lips, eyes smouldering. “I bring you a gift, sweet Sister.”

“A gi-,”

He brings his hands from behind his back, holding a gorgeous carmine [rose](https://johndensoncom.files.wordpress.com/2019/04/olympiad-hybrid-tea-rose.jpg?w=1024) in one hand and tracing over the petals with the tip of his pointer finger.

“The finest in the orchard, Sister,” he murmurs, “feel it. Touch it.”

You reach a hand out and he steps towards you, not even a foot apart now. His finger trails over the flower and you join him, the pad of your finger tracing over the large, thick, velvety soft petals, as they wrap ever tighter around the small, delicate bud in the centre.

The size of it, the blooming bulbous shape is voluptuous to behold, and the rich, deep colour and scent is sumptuous. The way your and Father’s fingers trail over the petals, grazing each other’s skin… something about the act was almost lascivious.

He holds the rose to your cheek, just barely resting and grazing the petals along your cheekbone before holding it up to your nose.

The scent is stronger now, and it smells _beautiful_. You breathe it in as you gaze into his deep dark eyes.

You ache for him.

“I,” you start, unsure how to continue, how to put it into words. You are repelled from him, by your vows and the Church and your place in this world; and compelled to him, because none of that seemed to really matter, not when he whispered to you in the black of night and quakes of bliss wracked your body. “I,” you want to feel it again, and you hate that you want to feel it again: Father Garupe stirs up this dizzying, heady mix of repulsion and attraction that you’re certain will only lead you to ruin.

“Father, I am,” you take a deep breath, heart clenching in your chest, “ashamed, of my frustration.”

“What frustration, dear girl?” He doesn’t miss a beat, his near-black eyes glimmering deviously in the morning sun, dragging you deeper and deeper away from the light, pulling you into the dark.

“When I woke this morning, I,” you’re not sure whether you want to stop it, or let him take you, “Father, I felt…,” you sigh, dropping your shoulders as words fail you.

But Father Garupe… he knows.

He’d wanted you to feel this, he’d needed you to feel the heat of regret and shame and desperate, lust-ridden desire circling you like a trinity of vultures. He was counting on it, so he could draw you in, cradle your conscience in his hands and make it easier, better, make it make sense for you all over again.

Like only he can.

“My florabella,” he murmurs, tilting your chin up, “do not let the wants of your body torture your mind like this.”

Your mind shouts at you: _it’s wrong, I need it, help me, leave me alone_. “Father-,”

“I can see it, Sister, inside your mind,” he leans in, closer, “I know how you are,” he pauses, lips inching closer, “oppressed, by your own need,” his breath ghosts over your mouth and you fight your eyelids to keep them open.

He says, “I will come to your chamber tonight.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Repeat it to me, florabella.” His voice is all husk and breath and sin.

“You will come to my chamber tonight.”

“And I will touch you.”

“You will t-touch me, Father.”

“And I will make you _cum_ , Sister.”

Your breath catches, a shiver running up your spine in the warm light of morning. “Y-you,” it’s just above a whisper, “you w-will, y-,”

Garupe smiles. “That’s enough now, Sister.” He leans away, brings the rose back between you again. “Until tonight, florabella.”

You grasp the stem and he slinks past you, clasping his hands behind his back.

You turn and watch him walk away, the tall, slender whole of him, so elegant in his long black robes.

“You dropped this, Sister Flora,” he calls over his shoulder, eyeing for a moment the empty wicker basket on the ground.

**XXXX**

All day you’d waited, wanted, yearned for him.

Since he’d found you in the orchard every minute seemed an hour, every task a chore, every person that wasn’t him a nuisance, all of it like gnats swarming for your attention, attention you didn’t want or care to give.

It’s dark now, late, after supper and prayers and the last hour of Confession.

It’s the dead of night, the black of night, the still silent darkness meant for none but monsters.

You sit in your bed chamber, on the flat, thin mattress atop the rickety wooden bedframe, looking down at your hands clasped in your lap as you murmur the words, waiting for him.

“Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive th-those,” his face flashes into your mind, “who. Trespass. Lead us, not-oh,” you wince: this was not your first attempt at saying the Lord’s Prayer tonight. It was maybe your fifth, if you are being generous with yourself.

Listening, leaning, undiscovered on the other side of your door, Father Garupe smiles to himself.

You flex your interlocked fingers, clear your throat, and start again.

“Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come,” there it is again, his face, his eyes as he trails a rose along your cheek and a finger under your chin. “Thy kingdom come,” you try again, but let your lids fall closed, bring your legs together instinctively to quell the burgeoning heat there, “thy will be d-done-,”

The metal handle clinks, the oak door swings open, and long, tall Father Garupe stands in the archway.

Your heart stops.

“It is not safe to leave your door unlocked like this, Sister Flora.” He steps into your room, closes the door behind him and bolts the lock. A beat passes, the metallic slide of the bolt almost ringing in the small room. “ _Any_ one could walk in.”

But you’d left it open for _him_. “Father-,”

Father Garupe takes a step closer, and another, almost at your bed. “Anyone at all.”

Intentionally, unlocked, all just for him, only for him. “I wanted, Father I-,”

“You were eager for me to come, Sister, no?” His eyes dance over your face, your hair free from cap and veil.

“Yes, Father.” You can’t tear your eyes away from him, his features lit by the soft glow of three candlesticks on the small chest of drawers in the corner. The rose, his rose, lay languidly beside the pewter taper holders.

He steps closer again, standing right in front of you, and trails the back of his index finger over your brow bone, down your temple and cheekbone, down to under your chin. He tilts your head up, lifts your face to better gaze into your eyes.

Your lashes flutter so prettily for him. Prettier than most. “Did I interrupt your prayers, Sister?”

You mouth the word, his touch so warm on your skin, “no.”

Father Garupe cocks his head to the side, squints his eyes for just a second. “No?”

You take a deep breath in, breathe it out over the word, “yes.”

He hums, runs the pad of his thumb over your chin, grazing your lower lip. “My florabella… do you remember what I said I would do to you?”

You nod in his grip, a shiver running up your spine and sparking in the peaks of your breasts. “Yes, Father.”

Garupe smiles, with his glinting eyes more than his mouth, and takes a step back from you, black robes swooping around his legs. “Are you ready for me?”

Unsure how to answer, unsure how you can even hear him over your heart pounding in your chest, you try, “y-yes, Father-,”

“Are you wet, Sister?”

Your breath catches in a gasp, “I,” he’d said it so suddenly, so casual and unadorned, like it wasn’t a wrong or secret thing anymore, “Father, I-,” and maybe it never was, for him.

“I want you wet, florabella.”

You gulp, throat clicking and heart racing. “Yes, Father.” You shift on the bed, fingers splaying out over the top of your thighs.

“Show me,” Father Garupe says, crossing his hands behind his back.

You grasp at the scratchy, heavy tunic you wear for sleep, all to conscious of the way your stiff nipples rub up against it with your movement. “Sh-show you, what, Fa-,”

“Your cunt, Sister.”

You glance down at your hands, unable to hold his gaze any longer. You _knew_ this was going to happen, and you had _wanted_ for this to happen, but now that the moment is upon you-nothing can stop the butterflies churning and whirring in the pit of your stomach.

Perhaps that was the real reason you’d been praying.

“Sister Flora,” Father Garupe breaks you out of your thoughts.

You glance up at him, clutching your tunic, and as you breathe out his name you drag the fabric up your thighs and slowly ease your knees apart.

For a moment his eyes glance down between your legs, then back up to your face. “Good,” he murmurs, long and slow, before trailing his eyes back down your body.

“Thank you, Father,” you whisper, as you bunch the tunic up at your waist, shuffle your legs wider. “C-can you see?” you murmur, heat rising in your chest and neck.

Father Garupe smirks, grabs one of the candles from the side table and crouches down at eye level with your spread legs. He hums, the single candle illuminating your core also making his eyes shine, “pretty curls, florabella-,”

Your breath hitches again: he was just staring, gawping, almost _studying_ you.

“-but no. I want to see the lips of your cunt _shine_ with how wet you are.” Father Garupe stands, places the taper on the small desk behind him and leans back against it. “Show me what you learned, last night. What I taught you.”

You swallow again, palms starting to sweat, skin hot all over.

“Go on, florabella. For me.” His voice is silky smooth, like velvet.

You shuffle, shift, spreading your legs as wide as they can go as you lean back on one hand. You ruck your tunic up higher, getting it out of the way and the fabric scratches against your tight, hard nipples deliciously.

“Good,” he purrs again, “and now?”

You trail your hand down your stomach, over your mound, and you gaze into Father Garupe’s eyes until you just can’t anymore, until your head tips back, eyes closing as your fingertips graze your clit and your lips part in a soft, quiet, “ _oh_.”

Garupe’s eyes dart all over you, his nostrils flaring as he takes in your face and your fingers working between your legs.

You find your rhythm, fingers stroking over your bud as you open your eyes and look at him, gasping, “Father-,”

“Mm?” He flicks his gaze up to meet yours, feeling himself growing fatter and longer and stiffer beneath his robes.

“It’s not, it’s not, working. Not like lahh,” a sigh, a jolt as pleasure spikes, “last night.”

Father Garupe tsks, steps closer and crouches down before your spread legs again. “Here,” he grasps your wrist between his thumb and index finger, gently trails your hand down, lower, “here, florabella, what name do we call this?”

“Mmy s-slit,” you gasp.

“Mm, yes, and I like _lips_ , too.”

Your breath catches, the pads of your fingers dipping into your slick, “l-lips?”

Garupe hums, “plush,” he glides your hand back up, “hot,” your fingertips trailing wetness up your folds, “wet, lips.” He watches as your fingers slide over your clit again, rubbing your slick into it, and he looks up into your face as you sigh with pleasure.

He trails his thumb back and forth over your knuckles as you rub circles over your clit, drops his voice deep and low and rumbles from deep in his chest, “good girl, florabella, keep going.”

Slowly, gently, you trail your fingers down over your lips again, collect some more of that slippery slick and drag it up over your folds, circling your clit with it.

Garupe watches it all, mesmerised. “Just like that, get your sweet cunt wet for me… that’s it.”

Your sighs are breathy as you try to keep quiet—or quiet _enough_. “S-sweet, Father?” What he said doesn’t make sense. “Hh-how can, how is my cuhh-cunt, sweet?” Subtly, slightly, you don’t even realise it but Garupe does: you start to rock your hips onto your fingers.

Father Garupe huffs a small, quiet chuckle. “Mm, my girl, down here… I can smell you,” he takes deep, full breath in, “I can taste your cum on the tip of my tongue,” he says it slowly, “sweet, and sharp, and rich.”

Your clit throbs, twitches from his words and the deep timbre of his voice. Your fingers slip and slide over the stiff little thing, and you look down at him through half-lidded eyes.

Father Garupe’s eyes glint awfully, wickedly dark. “When I come to see you, Sister, this is how I want you.”

“Yes, Father.” It’s breathy, quiet, as you keep your gaze locked with his.

“Mm, I will ask you again.” He braces himself on either side of your spread knees, stands and leans over you, leans in close to your face. His breath fans over your mouth when he says, “my florabella, are you ready for me?”

You nod, arousal mixing with anticipation making your heart thud harder, faster in your chest.

“Tell me,” Garupe murmurs, “tell me you are wet and ready for me.”

You gasp, “Father,” roll your hips onto your hand, “please.” You know what you’re asking for now, as your fingers flying over your clit: you know exactly what will come next.

But Father Garupe doesn’t move. His eyes flit between yours, watching, waiting.

“Father,” you arch your back, pleasure rising, sharpened by the friction of your tunic on your nipples, “I’m ready for you,” your breath catches, “I’m, my cunt, is wet for you.”

His hand darts out and clasps over yours, stopping your movement. “Good, Sister. Good girl.”

A shiver racks up your spine, your clit throbbing beneath your stilled fingers.

Father Garupe takes a seat beside you on the small, old bed, pressing his body up against yours, bracing one arm behind your back. His fingers trace patterns over your knuckles and the back of your hand.

He breathes into your ear, “did you say your prayers this evening, Sister?” even though he knows, knows you tried and failed, all because of him.

“Yes, Father,” you reply, as he slips his fingers beneath yours, “the Lo-Lord’s Prayer,” the last word is a gasp as Garupe’s pointer finger grazes your clit.

“Ah, the Our Father,” he murmurs, tracing over your swollen bud so slowly and gently its almost maddening. “Did you finish it, florabella?”

“I, I don’t,” heat flushes your skin again, embarrassment and excitement all at once, “n-no, Father.”

“Say it for me now, Sister,” he murmurs, making big, slow, soft, sweeping rings around your hard clit.

You hum and sigh, and ever so slightly, lean to your side, leaning into him as your thighs clench, the tiniest tremors running through your muscles. “Our-our F-father, who a- _ahh_ ,” your voice catches on a moan as Father Garupe slips his fingertip down over your silky slick folds and back, “art in H-H-Heaven-,”

“Keep going.”

“H _aahh_ , hallowed be thy, name,” you squeak it out as he rubs over your clit faster, “thy kingdom coh-come, oh, _Father_.”

“Keep _going_ , florabella.”

You hum a moan, “thy will be-ee done, on Earth, ahh-as it is,” you gasp, pant, two of his fingers working over your clit now, “in Heaven-nnm, Father, please.”

Suddenly he stops, yanks his hand away, holds his two fingers up to your face and candlelight catches on them, making them shine.

Your clit aches, your thighs instinctively closing together and it takes every ounce of self control not to whine out loud.

“Look here, florabella, do you see this?”

Half-dazed, you try to focus on his fingers. He rubs his thumb over them, smearing your slick around his digits before he gently, slowly, eases them apart, a small, thin string connecting his thumb and pointer finger.

“What shall we call this?” he whispers.

You try to rub your thighs together, your fingers digging into the flesh there. “I, I don’t know, Father. W-wet?”

Garupe hums, considering. If he hadn’t done this so many times, he’d be wild, mad with lust, wanting and needing to taste you, to fuck you, right here and now on your shitty old novice’s mattress.

Instead, he lets his fat cock throb beneath his robes. He lets it wait, needy and drooling cum as he toys with your mind, and your cunt.

He'll find someone to take care of it.

“Let us call it,” he murmurs, sliding his fingers together and apart again, showing you the thin, sticky tackiness between them, “cum, or your slick, or your sweet cyprine.”

“Please, Father,” you clutch at his robes, not really listening or seeing, blind and deaf with desperation.

Garupe huffs, snakes his hand between your legs again, murmuring, “wider,” to get you to spread your thighs for him.

“Oh, thank you Father, thank you,” you sigh as he strokes your hard bud again.

“Mm,” he hums, not entirely accepting of your gratitude, “I know you want to cum, florabella, but there is one more thing you need to do for me. Will you do it?”

Your head is swimming, his fingers giving you almost, almost, but just _not_ the right pressure or pace. “I, I don’t… what is it, Father? This, I, _oh_ it hurts, please.”

“You trust me, don’t you, Sister?”

You try settle your breathing: the room, the air feels hot, wet, viscous. “Yes, Father.”

Father Garupe trails his fingertips down your folds, dipping between your lips and he whispers, “I want you to bloom for me like a flower.”

You gasp, his fingers trailing lower, deeper, _in_.

“Do you feel that, Sister, where your flesh yields?” His two fingers tease your entrance. “That leads inside you, florabella. Inside your cunt. Have you ever been touched here?”

Have you? Should you tell him? Maybe there’s an answer he’s looking for. “No, Father,” you decide to say.

A beat passes, his fingers stroking your flesh. “No, only me,” Father Garupe murmurs, letting the tip of one finger slip inside you. “No one else will touch you here, will they?”

“Nno Father,” you spread your legs wider, arch into him, tilt your hips, “only you.”

He hums and murmurs, “good girl, florabella,” as he gently eases his single finger all the way inside your cunt, tilting his head so he can watch your lips open up around his thick digit.

“Oh, Father!” He feels _good_ , you feel somehow _full_ , and your head lolls back on his shoulder.

Garupe grins wolfishly, licks his plush lips and says, “so hot inside, Sister. So warm and wet in this tight little cunt.” He strokes along your insides languidly, feeling the walls of your cunt constrict his digit as he leans in and breathes into your ear, “that’s it, that feels good, doesn’t it?”

You hum a moan, “Father, _yes_.”

“Shall I go faster?” he croons, biting back an even bigger grin.

“Ffaster?” your voice is breathless.

“Like this, florabella,” he says, pumping his fat finger in earnest now, the friction making you gasp and sigh, making your eyes flutter closed, “I think you like it like this, no? When I go faster like this?”

You hum and groan in response, your cunt hugging his finger tight, your clit begging for attention. “Yes Father, please, more.”

“Soon, Sister,” he murmurs, “I know what you want, and soon. But first,” he eases his pointer finger out of you, brings his hand up to his mouth and sucks on his middle finger, slicking it up with spit, “tell me how _this_ feels, florabella,” and he guides his hand back between your legs, and sinks two slippery fingers inside you.

Your moan is short and sudden and high, and you clamp a hand over your mouth, breath coming hot and heavy and quick through your nose.

Voice rumbling, Father Garupe hums and says, “mm, I thought as much. Your cunt just swallowed my fingers, so hungry for them, florabella, just sucked them right in, no?” He drags his fingers along your soft, silky walls, pumping in and out slowly but with enough force that your cunt makes obscene noises. “There, see? Hear this, florabella?” he pauses for a few beats, lets the slick sloppy squelch ring out in the small space, “two is better, hm?”

Short sharp breathy pants are wrenched from your lungs, “better, mmmh, yes Father, yes.”

“And this?” he asks, angling his hand so his thumb can rub up against your clit as his fingers plunge deep into your core, “this little clit must be so sore, must ache for me to touch it.”

Your mouth drops open in a gasp, pleasure cresting as he toys with you inside and out. “Father,” it’s a moan, “please,” you chance a look at him, and your whole body heats up all over again: he studies your face with ink-black eyes, deep dark fathoms of desire, of need, of wickedness.

“Pray for release, Sister,” he murmurs, “I will give it to you, but finish your prayer.”

You try to talk, words coming out in bitten-off moans and sighs.

Father Garupe tsks, disapproving, “florabella, sweet Sister, you want to cum, don’t you?”

His thumb rubs up over your clit as his fingers stretch out your tight cunt, and if there was anything, _anything_ you could ask for in the whole wide world right now-

“ _Yes_ , Father,” you plead, “I want to cum, please make me cum. Father,” it’s high, you’re begging, you need it, “ _please_.”

“Then pray, Sister. From ‘give us this day.’ Go on.”

Your breath catches, “g-give us this day-yy, our, mmmour daily bread-,”

It’s so sweet, to Garupe’s ears, to hear your voice moan and sigh over these holy words.

“aahh-aahhnd forgive us-ssoh Father, it’s too-,”

“’Forgive us our trespasses,’ you can say it, florabella, you know the words.” What he’s doing to you, what he’s making you say: in every way possible, it’s decadently sinful.

“Ffforgive us our, our, trespasses-,”

“Good girl.”

“-ahhs we, forgive those who, whoooh-,”

He thumbs over your clit, brushing the sensitive bud back and forth with the pad of his thumb as his fingers rock inside you, anchored on some spot so deep within your cunt that you lose the ability to speak.

You’re just mouthing the word “who” over and over.

“What do they do, florabella? Hm? Those people you forgive, what do they do to you?”

“Trespass,” you choke the word out in a single hot breath, “who trespass, against us, _Father_ -,”

“Almost there, sweet girl.” In more ways than one, he thinks. He knows.

“Aaahnd, mmmh, l-l-lead us, n-not into temp,” he rocks and quakes his hand inside you, shaking your whole pelvis with the force of it and making your stomach ripple, “temp, temp-,” you squeak it out, but you just can’t get the word-

“Say it,” he mutters, a short gruff grunt.

“ _Temptation_ ,” it’s high and breathy and needy as pleasure spikes deep in your gut, your skin tingling and hot, your nipples sore from being so stiff for so long.

“Finish it, florabella.”

“Yes, yes, Father,” you pant, eyes scrunched up as you chase that soaring, bubbling, exploding high, “b-but deliver, us, fromm, mmh, _Father_ I, I’m going to-,”

“Deliver you from _what_?” he spits out, over the top of your sucking, squelching cunt, his arm starting to tense up. “Two more words, florabella, two more. Say them, if you want to cum.”

You groan, throaty and desperate, “evil! Ah-ah-ahhmenn-,”

He grunts again. “Cum.”

And it's all you need. “ _Father!_ ” you cry out as your orgasm rips through your body, rattling every muscle, making your hips buck onto his hand as your legs quake with tremors of pleasure. “Father,” you grip and clutch at the bedsheets, his robes, anything to ground you to reality as you shake with spasms of bliss.

Garupe lets you writhe and tremble, keeps his hand locked inside you and his thumb pressed against your clit to wring out every last second of your orgasm.

When you collapse back against him, warm and loose-limbed, he gently eases his fingers from your centre, nuzzles his nose into your hair and breathes the words, “good girl.”

“Thank you, Father,” you hum, dazed and sated, tamping down the sudden and immediate surge of regret like it’s the upturned soil around a newly-planted bloom.

You sit up off him, find him staring down at his slick-sticky fingers as he slides them along each other, as if to massage your cyprine into his skin.

“Sleep now, florabella,” he says suddenly, rising up off the mattress, “don’t wash your hands before Mass.” He can't stay. He won't.

You blink at him, confused, and he stalks back over, grasps your wrist with the hand that wasn’t playing with you and holds it up to your face, “smell, here.” You do as he says, breathing in a sweet muskiness, “your scent, florabella. I want to smell it on you, on the morrow, when you will receive the Body of Christ from me.”

 _Oh_. “Yes, Father.”

Garupe hums, seeing your pupils still blown big and black and feeling your pulse tick up in your wrist. He whispers, low and soft and almost gentle, “goodnight, my florabella,” and his hot breath fans over your face.

Before you can answer he releases your hand, turns, takes a few short strides towards your door and yanks it open. Louder, he says “Tomorrow, Sister Flora,” and then he is gone, black robes swirling behind him and pulling the heavy, wooden door closed with a thud.


	5. The Blessed Sacrament

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Father Garupe seeks relief. NOTE: Smutty chapter.

“…saecula saeculorum, Amen.” With reverence Father Garupe crosses the gold chalices on the altar in front of him, and the other Holy Fathers—Rodrigues, Valignano and Ferreira—step forward onto the dais to break the day’s first bread with him.

All four of them turn to face the congregation of monastics, clasping one each of the glinting golden treasures. You can’t help thinking— _blasphemer_ —that they all look divine. Behind the Fathers, four tall stained-glass windows glow with the cool, faded yellow light of early morning. The light catches on their hair, shines like halos wrapped around their heads, and contrasts with their long black robes in the most striking way. These, truly, are men of God.

Except for, maybe, _one_ —who glances at you as if he had just heard your thoughts.

Your stomach flips, and his gaze passes seamlessly over others in the congregation.

“Come,” Garupe says, leading the priests down the stairs to administer communion, “brothers and sisters, come.”

It’s so very organised: one priest at each of the cardinal directions, the congregation wordlessly dividing and amassing in single file in front of the nearest Father.

Of course, it is Father Garupe nearest you, just like he said he would be.

The line shuffles forward slowly, all rustling fabric and whispered words of prayer.

“The Body of Christ,” Garupe’s saying to each sister and brother that stands before him, holding up the small morsel of bread between his thumb and forefinger. “Amen,” they answer, with an open mouth or one palm over the other in supplication. Sometimes, when Garupe places the eucharist on a young nun’s tongue, the two lock eyes for half a second too long.

Your pounding heart thuds louder with each step closer, almost ringing in your ears and drowning out all other sounds besides the breaths you try to steady—when suddenly, the Sister in front of you steps away, and you are face to face with him. You freeze, a bundle of anxiety and surprise and, underneath it all, delight.

“The Body of Christ,” Father Garupe says, raising the piece of bread between you. He gives nothing away. You could be any Sister, any Brother, anyone at all.

Your eyes rapidly flit between his, your lips part slowly, but no words come.

Garupe’s gaze turns dark and penetrating. He will not repeat himself. Under his left eye, a muscle twitches. The trudging line of clergy behind you has come to a full stop.

“Amen,” you rush to say, your hands flying up to make the gesture, hot embarrassment rising in your neck.

But Garupe doesn’t place the bread in your upturned palm. He catches the faintest trace, smells the lingering scent of your cyprine on your fingers, and arousal tickles the base of his spine. You’d followed his instructions.

“Sister,” he whispers, so quietly that only you can hear it, holding the eucharist in front of your lips. You press your hands together as if in prayer, lean forward, and open your mouth to Father Garupe.

Without missing a beat, the Holy Father places the bread on your tongue, but it all feels slower than it was. His thick fingers brush against your lips, and graze your slick tongue, and he stares fixedly with something like hunger, and the moment is infinite, and—

Garupe blinks and reaches into the chalice, clasping another piece of eucharist, and looks up over your head at the Sister behind you.

You are dismissed.

**XXXX**

It’s late, now; black night is dusted over the Monastery, and the kitchen is empty but for you. The white-washed stone room is heated by the lingering warmth of the various kilns that fired during the day, and lit by the golden yellow glow of candlelight.

All evening have you sliced countless raspberries, a few less strawberries, and fewer still blackberries. The quantities and instructions left to you were precise, but you’d soon learned simply to dice, toss into the pot, add sugar, and repeat. From hours of work your fingers are stained a deep pinky-red, almost burgundy, your neck and shoulders feel tight, your eyes sore and heavy.

A rush of footsteps makes you glance at the archway, and Father Garupe swoops into the kitchen in a flurry of robes. He stops short when he finds you hunched over the bench.

“Sister Flora,” Garupe starts, eyeing you suspiciously, a hint of uncertainty and surprise startling his usually smooth tone of voice. “Where… is Sister Cook?”

It takes you a moment to gather yourself. _This_ is not how you have become accustomed to Father Garupe greeting you, and it is certainly not what you expected from him after his fingers had been—after he made you—when, last night, he…

You suppose your presence here is perhaps, merely, unexpected. “Father, Sister Cook was taken to the infirmary after Mass. She has fallen ill.”

Garupe straightens, taking a short breath in and setting his jaw. “Ill? Is it known when she will return?”

You pause. “No, Father.”

“Hm,” Garupe grunts in response.

“Mother Superior called for help in the kitchen. I am to finish these berries by tonight, to be ready for the morning.”

For the first time, Father Garupe appears to notice the mess of bowls and berries scattered around you. “By the morning?” he queries, sceptical, taking long slow deliberate strides to cross the kitchen to you. He clasps his hands behind his back when he reaches you at the bench. “That is,” he pauses, considering you, “unfortunate, Sister.”

“I—,” his eyes are fathomless pools of black, “I s-serve at the pleasure of—,”

“—of the Lord,” Garupe finishes, his eyes sparkling in the low light, “I know you do, sweet Sister.”

Something changes in his face—does it soften? It couldn’t possibly.

Your breath catches, and a corner of his mouth tugs upwards as he peers into the large pot of cut up berries, sugar-soaked and macerating.

He hums, and dips a finger into the mix, locking eyes with you as he draws it to his mouth and samples the saccharine conserve. His plush pink lips wrap around his thick finger, tempting you closer, luring you in with the lewdness of it, and you’re forced to swallow the excess saliva pooling in your mouth.

Garupe smacks his lips together. “You have not yet tasted this, have you, florabella?” he murmurs quietly, his voice deep.

You feel it in your gut, plummeting to your core. “Nno, Father.”

Garupe hums again, knowingly this time, and gathers some more jam on the same finger that was just in his mouth. He holds it out to you, saying nothing more, but waiting with the patience of someone who is assured of his action’s consequences. Like a hunter laying a trap for a deer; a spider spinning a web for a fly.

How lurid, how depraved that Father Garupe should desire to feel your mouth on his fingers—and this twice now! You glance from the Father’s sticky, jam-covered finger to his pitch-black eyes. His dark gaze dismisses all thought from your mind, and you inch closer, slowly, possessed only by a gnawing, wanton need to _give in to him_.

Your tongue slips out to lick your lips, and hesitantly, tentatively you close them around his thick, warm finger.

Garupe’s eyes twinkle and shine, glinting black and dangerous. He watches you in silence, feeling your breath fan over his skin. He leans down then, almost at your eye level, and very very quietly he whispers, “suck.”

The desire to do it is too strong to ignore, swelling within you as hot and proud as the flame on a just-lit wick. Just the same, something curdles, something cowers into the shadows of your soul as you _let go_ and suck on Father Garupe’s finger, your tongue and teeth softly grazing his skin, and the padre lets out a long sigh through his nose.

After one long moment, Garupe withdraws his digit from your mouth with a slick popping sound. “I must leave you to your task now, florabella,” Garupe murmurs. “I have too strong an appetite for,” he brushes his thumb over your bottom lip, “sweet things.”

You swallow thickly, your pulse thundering through your veins, hot and urgent between your legs.

But Father Garupe will tempt you no more tonight. “I would add an apple or two, Sister Flora,” he says, turning and making his way out of the kitchen. “And a pinch of salt,” he calls, strolling through the archway and into the corridor beyond.

When his footfalls are out of earshot, you remember to breathe.

**XXXX**

Mid-morning the next day, Father Garupe stops you near the southern-most courtyard. He takes in your shallow panting breaths, the thin sheen of perspiration glazing your face, the way your eyes dart away from him towards the South Library, the biggest on the Monastery grounds.

He smirks, clasping his hands behind his back. The padre is in no hurry. “You are behind time, Sister, no?”

“Father, I must go,” you gasp to say. The wrath of Sister Scripture, that vexed old thing—

“Tell them you met with me,” Father Garupe says simply, assured that whomever it is will not question him. His gaze flicks down to your heaving chest.

You gulp. That you had ‘met with’ Father Garupe instead of arriving on time to Scripture may not be so well received by the good Sister.

Garupe hums, reading your face. “Perhaps not,” he says, leaning ever so slightly closer to you, boring down on you with his eyes.

“Father, please—,” you pant, making the mistake of glancing at his full, rosey lips. For a moment, you don’t know if you’re pleading for him let you go to the Library, or to whisk you away elsewhere.

“You were not made for this life, were you, florabella?” murmurs Father Garupe quietly; like it was a thought he had just happened to say aloud, and even then, it was more for himself than for your ears to hear.

“I will be punished, Father,” you whisper, your skin tingling to be graced with his touch, but your mind loud and insistent: you must not linger here.

Suddenly Garupe straightens, sniffs dismissively and says, “No, you will not. Tell whomever greets you that you will confess to me tonight, in repentance for your… carelessness.”

“Yes, Father.” Is it a lie?

“Tell them your shortcomings plague you, that they,” he pauses, huffs a small, derisive laugh through his nose, “that they are as a stain against your soul. They will like that.”

“Father, I will,” you nod. Is he coaching you to tell lies?

Garupe drops his voice. “And when you do come to me, dear girl,” he glances at your mouth, and on instinct your tongue darts out to wet your lips, “you will not be late, will you?”

“No, Father,” you whisper.

He smiles, one corner of his mouth tugging upwards, his eyes glinting. “Good girl,” murmurs Father Garupe, stepping back from you, and stalking away.

**XXXX**

That night, the air is unseasonably warm, as if the very stones of the old place are witness to the simmering desire in your gut and finally waking up to bask in it.

For the first time in your memory of living at the Monastery, you walk and your stride is sure. You know your path, and it’s as if you glide down the corridors, your habit billowing around your ankles as your feet click-tap on the stones. You do not shy away from the noise you make, or the space you take up, the many lanterns and vines of ivy almost bowing in acknowledgement of your presence.

When you’d arrived at the South Library, Sister Scripture had been one wrong word shy of furious. But you’d implored her for a private audience, dropped your shoulders and cast your eyes down, and repeated Father Garupe’s words almost verbatim. As your heart pounded in your chest, the Sister pursed her lips into a thin, wrinkled line, assessing you and every word of your story with beady grey eyes. Until, finally, she’d huffed a sigh and folded her arms. ‘Very well,’ she’d said, ‘complete what you have missed by overmorrow, Sister Flora—when I _shall_ see you again.’ You’d thanked her for her leniency and her generosity, and scurried from the antechamber to your seat.

When you’d flicked open a leather-bound missal, it wasn’t fear or dread or anxiety that rushed through your veins. No; as you’d sat surrounded by your Sisters and pretended to read the dense text on the yellowing pages, you’d felt _power_. You’d done the wrong thing and gotten away with it. You’d talked your way out of a scolding, and a caning, and a roster of reduced rations and more work. You’d said and looked the part of a more contrite, better-meaning Sister than you were.

As you near the Confessional, you wish he’d seen it.

You round the corner—startled to find Father Garupe leaning against the stone wall. To his right, the large wooden door to the Confessional is firmly shut and latched.

Garupe glances up at the sound of footsteps, and when your mouth moves as if to say, ‘Father,’ Garupe holds a finger up to his lips, hushing you.

He points and nods to his right, steps off the wall, and beckons you to follow.

Your pursue the shadows with him, Garupe leading you around the far side Confessional and winding through one, two, three? dimly-lit corridors, before stopping in front of another heavy oak door.

He turns to face you. “Do you remember the path we took to get down here, Sister?”

“No, Father.” It was a blur, and a section of the Monastery forbidden to all but the Holy Fathers. You’d never been here before, and likely wouldn’t come here again. Not unless he asked you to.

“You could not leave here, or find your way back here without my help?” he asks.

Why? Your eyes search his black orbs. “I think not, Father. No.”

He simply nods, and pulls open the wooden door. It doesn’t squeak, or make any real sound at all: it must be well-oiled. “In,” is all he says, and you duck through the doorway into another small, stone-walled room.

It’s the priests’ side of the Confessional, similar in scale to the side you are used to, but much more lavish. At one end there is a short wooden bookcase of leather-bound volumes and a dressed table with jug and goblet. At the other, near the latticed partition between the rooms, there is a stone bench carved out of the wall, dressed with cushions and blankets embroidered in red and gold brocade. Tapestries and lit candles in sconces adorn the walls.

Behind you, the bolt latches, locking closed. “Father,” you spin to face him, but he is already on top of you, and the word hitches in your throat, seizing your breath as you stumble back a step.

Garupe follows, crowding you once more. “This,” he taps gently on your mouth, the pad of his index finger dragging on your lips, “has kept me awake at night, florabella. It has kept me from sleep.”

Your mind races, trying to recall what it is you’ve said that upset him so. “I’m sorry, Father,” you start, then seize on your run-in with Sister Scripture, “I said only what you told me to say—,”

“ _Que_?” blurts Garupe, his brows pinching in and eyes narrowing in genuine confusion. He winces, resetting, “what, Sister?”

“M-my mouth,” you murmur, “what I said to Sister Scripture. Am I in trouble?”

Father Garupe leans up and away, out of your space, understanding smoothing over his features. “No, Sister,” he sighs, considering how to play his next move.

He sits on the cushioned seat, in the same spot he sits to forgive sins, and absolve the repentant, and, sometimes, bring himself to orgasm. “Before taking your vows,” he starts slowly, “before the convent. Have you ever… pleasured a man before, florabella?”

You blink at him, suddenly feeling unsteady on your feet. “I… I,” you mumble, not knowing how to answer him.

“Do you know much, if anything of the male sex, Sister?” Garupe widens his legs and rests his palms on his thighs.

“I—,” heat rises in your neck, and you stumble over your words, “I know of—of the creation of children, between a man and a woman. In the marriage bed. Father.”

Garupe shakes his head, subtly dismissing your answer. “You must know something of the effect you have on a man, Sister; and, what you can—must do to… _help_ him?”

You gasp, picking up on only some of what he is saying. “Oh, Father; are you in pain?” The very thought of it!

Garupe blinks away a smile. “No, Sister,” he holds out a hand to you, and tentatively, you place your palm in his.

Without warning Garupe draws you into his lap. You perch on his leg gingerly as his hand wraps around your back, your heart thudding through your chest from being so so _so_ close to him again. He’s warm; he smells _good_ , like ink and wine.

“No, I am not in pain,” Garupe’s deep voice drips down your spine, and he leans closer to murmur in your ear. “But, at times I do… _ache_. For you, florabella.” He grips your hand and eases it down between your bodies, until your palm connects with a large ridge, firm and long beneath his robes, and you gasp in surprise. Garupe breathes deeply. “You can remember what tricks such torture plays on the mind, can you not?” Garupe waits, dragging your hand along his erection until you nod. The Holy Father sighs. “Soothe me, sweet Sister. Please me.”

You turn your head slightly towards him, and his breath fans across your cheek. “H-how, Father?”

“With your hand,” he squeezes your palm where it rests on his clothed cock, then trails his fingertips along your bottom lip, “with your mouth.”

You release a shaky breath. You want to, you do, but, “I-I don’t, Ffather, I’m not—,”

“Shhh,” Father Garupe runs the tip of his nose along your cheek. “I will guide you,” he whispers, your lips almost touching. “Yes?”

“Yes, Father,” you breathe.

Garupe hums darkly. “Down between my legs, Sister: kneel there.”

Shakily, you slide off his thigh and kneel between his spread legs, your perspiring palms fisting your habit nervously. Looking up at him like this, so big and imposing with his long robes and thick hair and strong features, he looks almost regal.

The Father slips a hand beneath his robes, fussing with the ties and material there, the wooden beads of his rosary knocking about clumsily.

“May I help you, Father?” you offer. “With your vestments?”

Garupe pauses, his hand stilling. He wets his bottom lip and swallows. He fixes his gaze on your eyes. “Have you seen a man’s cock before, florabella?”

You consider the truth, and the answer he’d like best. “No, Father. Never.”

“Hm.” His gaze trails down to your lips, then back up to your eyes. “Do not be… frightened.”

Your eyes flit between his, and Garupe takes it as a sign of panic.

He says: “A cock is… think of it as a symbol of a man’s devotion, and his desire. It is how you _know_ , florabella, that you have stirred his passions to the point of fever. To kiss it, to pleasure it is one of the purest things you can do for him.”

You gulp, shifting on your knees. “For you, Father?”

Garupe smiles lazily. “Do you remember, last night, when we met in the kitchen?”

You nod.

“Mm,” nods the padre, “of course you do, sweet Sister.” He caresses the side of your face with his thumb. “And you remember, of course, putting your lips upon my finger, taking my finger in your mouth and sucking on it?”

“Yes, Father,” your voice is just above a whisper; you can’t look away from his eyes.

“Yes,” Garupe hums, his thumbnail skirting your bottom lip. “That is what you will do to _my cock_ , florabella.”

Your heart hammers in your chest, and his words ring in your ears: devotion, desire, passion, fever. “Father, after what you have shown—done—for me—,”

“Hush, Sister.”

“—please,” you take a steadying breath, feeling it fill your lungs and lift your chest, “show me how to—tell me how you would have me,” you swallow, “p-pleasure your, your cock, Father.”

Father Garupe’s eyes smoulder at you. He feels a desperate throbbing, his underclothes too tight and restrictive on his engorged manhood. He can’t, in recent memory, recall another of the Sisters talking to him like this on her knees, making hot liquid fire curl up his spine and flood down to his toes. “There are none like you, florabella,” he mutters.

“Father?” you ask, not quite hearing him.

“Would you like to practise, dear Sister?”

You nod and shift on your knees again, the stone starting to chill the bones in your legs.

Garupe knows. From behind him he passes you a cushion, the one Fathers use to protect their backs and kidneys against the stone wall, and says, “for your knees.”

You thank him and adjust to kneel on the pillow, just as Garupe slips a hand beneath his robes again.

He holds out his other hand to you and murmurs, “kiss them, Sister.”

Your eyes dart between his, and the realisation collides with you like a lightning bolt might have done: this, now, will change everything, and you couldn’t find your way out of it if you tried. Nor even, if you wanted to.

“Just a kiss, florabella,” Father Garupe coos soothingly, flexing his fingers invitingly. “A kiss is not so hard, is it?”

…No, you suppose it’s not. You inhale a short, shaky breath, lean forward, and peck a small kiss to his index finger.

Garupe smiles with his eyes, and whispers, “go on.”

Gingerly you place more chaste kisses to his digits, and out of the corner of your eye you notice Father Garupe’s hand moving beneath his robes.

“Father, sh-should I—,” you glance at his crotch.

“No, Sister,” Garupe shakes his head, “I need to know you are ready. Lick them now, and take two into your mouth.”

You do as he says, licking lines up his long, thick fingers unpreciously, and wet heat simmers in your core. When you close your lips around two digits, Garupe looses a heavy breath, and it makes that same heat start to bubble and boil.

“Go on, Sister,” Garupe murmurs, rubbing his fingertips along your tongue, “m-move your lips, up and down.”

You try to say, ‘yes, Father,’—but only get as far as a muffled, “mmph,” around his fingers, and Garupe grunts. He was fisting himself slowly, but now has to stop altogether.

You get a rhythm going, the drag of your lips aided by just _so_ much spit. It’s entirely lewd, dirty and degrading to use your mouth in such a way, and there’s a flicker of morality in the back of your mind that tries to tell you it’s wrong, tries to tell you to stop. …But—there’s a more fiendish side of you that delights in doing something wrong: something like _this_ , with someone like _him_.

“Verry good, florabella,” Garupe purrs when you reach a slow, steady, strong pace. You _like_ it, he can tell. He’s seen enough to know when he’s looking at a woman who loves a cock in her mouth, even if she doesn’t know it herself.

You flick your gaze up to meet his eyes, and Garupe’s nostrils flare as he sucks in a sharp breath.

“Deeper, Sister,” he says, and pushes his fingers until they nudge against your throat.

He’s not surprised when you retch and recoil from him, your lips shining with spit—but he felt he had to assess the extent of your talents.

Your breath comes hard, your chest heaving as you pant to recover from the shock of almost vomiting.

Father Garupe tuts, observing your watery eyes. “No, no. No tears, florabella.”

“Father, what was—?” you gasp, hand on your chest.

“In time,” he cuts you off, “with practice… you will open your throat to me, Sister.” He watches your eyes go wide, your mouth drop open, and his cock is too hard, far too full of blood and desire and need to scare you off so soon—not that you can go anywhere, anyway. “Another night, Sister,” he coos, and you nod, swallowing, settling. “Come here, come back to me,” he murmurs.

You sniff, dab at your eyes, and settle back between his legs. You look up at him, a silent apology written all over your face.

If only you’d known how that made his stiff and swollen cock _ache_. “Are you ready, Sister?”

“Yes, Father,” your voice is firm and clear.

Father Garupe parts his robes, and immediately your eyes are drawn to it. His palm wrapped tight around it, dragging slowly up, then down on the stiff shaft: twice as long as his longest finger, _thick_ —you can see now why he had you practice with two digits—and as he sinks his fist all the way down to the base, he reveals a swollen, blushing head.

You don’t think you can get your mouth around it, and you try to say as much.

Garupe shushes you. “How do you start, Sister?”

You tear your eyes away from the pinkish-tan flesh of his—his cock. “Wi-with a kiss, Father?”

Garupe hums. “Go on, florabella. Kiss it.”

You lean closer, your lips hovering just above the head of his cock. You feel the heat radiating off it; Garupe feels your breath fan over it.

“Gentle now,” Garupe husks, “slowly. Softly.”

With a tender carefulness you touch your lips to the smooth, hard, hot flesh of his cockhead… Garupe sighs through his nose.

You do it again, and again, and once more, feeling more at ease with each press of your lips. Garupe grips the base of his cock firmly as you kiss down the shaft, his mouth dropping further and further open with each breath he takes.

Suddenly you pause. Your lips feel dry, so you lick them quickly, before continuing your slow, gentle kisses. You open your mouth more and more, letting your tongue graze his heated skin.

“Yes, yes wet your lips,” Garupe’s breath catches in his throat. “Sweet girl, _yes_ , lick my cock.”

“Yes, Father.” It comes out in a quick breath before you point your tongue and drag it up his exposed length.

“No, no—flatter. Wider,” he coaches, and when you try again, you’re rewarded with a sigh. “Ahhthere, like that.”

“Is this good, Father?” you gasp between long licks, “does this please you?”

“Uhhgh,” he groans, “you are a good, _good_ girl, florabella. Good girl,” he growls the last part as you lick a long, wet line up the underside of his cock.

Emboldened by his praise, you keep your tongue pressed against his frenulum and close your lips around the silky head—and suck.

“ _Aauhh_ ,” Garupe groans, deep and gravelly as his eyes fall closed and his head tips back, “ _yes_.”

You keep your lips wrapped tight around him, your tongue rhythmically pulsing against the underside of the swollen head. But—the vanity of it—you want him to keep watching you while you do it.

So, you get his attention. Breathing in through your nose, you slowly ease your lips a little further down Father Garupe’s cock, then back up to suck on the head.

Garupe hisses a breath through his teeth as he snaps forward, his thick fingers flexing and squeezing at the base of his cock. “Sister Flora,” his eyes flare wide. “My… florabella.”

“Mmh?” you hum, before pulling off and speaking onto his cockhead. “Yes, Father?”

“That mouth,” he murmurs, slowly stroking his length again, from root to tip, “you will do that again, Sister, yes?”

Of course, Father. It would be my pleasure, Father. “I will, Father. Yes.”

“Hmmh,” Garupe hums as he drags his fist over his cock again. He holds the foreskin down and beckons you closer. “You please me, florabella.”

“Thank you, Father,” you murmur as you take him into your mouth again, and on instinct you reach to steady yourself on his thigh—but you stop yourself, dropping your hand to your lap.

Garupe smirks. “Florabella, you can touch me,” he encourages, “rest your h-hand.”

You place a hand on his thigh, and it’s easier to move your neck and bob your mouth on his cock like this. You hum, appreciative, and Garupe shudders through a shaky sigh.

Feeling more confident, you bring your other hand up to rest on his other thigh, and swallow more of his cock into your mouth. It’s broad and girthy, taking up almost all the available space as you drag your lips back and forth along it.

Garupe groans, so very pleased with you. “Yesyesyes, a little more, _yes_. Oh, sweet Sister.”

You keep your breath steady, and you take the Father’s cock deeper. Your lips nudge his closed fist, and warmth trickles through your core.

“Mmmhh,” he breathes through his nose, “that’s it, mmfflorabella, thaat’s it.” Garupe can barely keep his eyes open, his lids fluttering from the pleasure of your mouth working his cock. For all his fantasising—with the others, with the peaks he’s reached by himself—they pale in comparison to the feel of your lips _finally_ wrapped around his throbbing hard cock.

You soon find a rhythm—one that you can manage and one that makes Father Garupe groan and sigh. Your fingers flex on his muscled thighs as you bob your head.

Watching the passes of your mouth, Garupe’s brow furrows, his thighs tense and he licks his lips. “Ssuck my cock,” he rumbles, and you suck harder. "Suck it, suck it—auhh," he hisses through clenched teeth, then groans in bliss when your hand wraps around his at the base of his length.

He moves his fist, then: stroking the shaft in time with the drags of your lips. “Like this, bella, like this,” he breathes, and when you tighten your hand on his, wordlessly acknowledging what he likes, the Holy Father sees stars—splendid and magnificent.

He slips his hand away quickly, and just as swiftly you replace it with your own, gripping it how he showed you, jerking and sucking his cock in one fluid movement.

Garupe’s mouth drops open. Your fist is smaller than his was, and through grunts and groans he encourages you to take, "more, more of my cock. Deeper… _fuck_ yesSister.”

You start to sweat, your jaw tightening as you work him over. It’s hot, hard work, and you can’t help slowing down your pace to save your breath, let alone your concentration.

At some point, Garupe had dropped his head back again, but he looks down at you now, blinking through the glassy glaze of pleasure.

“I’m sorry Father, it’s so hot,” you say between strokes of your fist along his length and gentle sucks to his cockhead.

“Ss-stop—stop, Sister,” Garupe sighs, in a daze. “Take off your,” he runs a hand through his hair, sweat beading at his hairline, and brushes it back from his face, “take off your cap, your habit. It will help.”

You sit back on your haunches, and Father Garupe absently strokes his thick, slick length—waiting. You wore a thin linen underskirt today, but this will be the first time he sees your bare breasts.

“Do it now, Sister,” he huffs, sensing your hesitation.

You decide not to waste any more time. You pull off your cap and veil and shake your head, tossing your hair and letting it fall free and natural. Garupe’s breath hitches; his fist moves quicker on his cock, with purpose now.

Then, you find the hem of your habit, and after a short sharp breath you lift it up and over your head.

“ _Deus meus_ …” Garupe mutters, his voice trailing off. “Florabella, my girl, come here.”

You can’t keep eye contact with him, your arms folding in on themselves instinctively.

Father Garupe tuts. “None of this coyness. Come to me.”

You inch closer, and Garupe grabs your arms, planting your palms on his thighs and holding your hands there by your wrists. The chill in the air graces your skin.

“You have done so _well_ tonight, florabella.”

“Thank you, Father.”

“When I release you, you will not disappoint me, will you, Sister?”

You glance at his erection, flushed an even ruddier pinkish-brown now. “No, Father.”

Garupe eyes you warily.

 _Do better_ , says a voice in your mind. _His_ voice. “I will not disappoint you, Father. I promise.”

Slowly, Garupe releases his gip on your wrists. He tugs down the high collar of his robes and leans forward. “I know, sweet girl,” he says, cradling the side of your face and drawing you towards his protruding length, “I know.”

You slip your lips around his girth once more, and before you can stop it, you hum a small moan of satisfaction around his cock.

Garupe grunts and bucks into your mouth. “Hands, your _hands_ , florabella.”

“Mmhee!” you moan, in apology this time, wrapping one hand around his cock and the other clutching his thigh to steady yourself.

Father Garupe groans and rasps, “suck me, florabella. Make me cum.”

You lock eyes with him—and you do not hold back.

Garupe chokes on a groan as you lunge for his cock eagerly. Your tight fist, your warm, wet lips and tongue, your heaving breasts, bouncing with each bob of your head. Steaming hot pressure spools at the base of his spine as he watches you, naked from the waist up, suck and tug on his cock with urgency.

The beginnings of his orgasm flare deep in his gut. “Harder,” he rasps, “faster, florabell— _fuuckk_ , that’s it. Christ _, suck me_ , oh _God_.”

You breathe hard and fast through your nose, keeping pace, keeping your lips and fingers locked tight. Most importantly, keeping your eyes on Father Garupe.

Suddenly he’s gasping, “your mouth—open your mouth, j-just your hand, open your—f-fuck, f-flora—!”

You lean back and drop your mouth and stroke his cock _hard_ and he _explodes_.

Father Garupe cums with a long, low, hoarse groan, shooting his load all over you: some lands on your tongue and lips, some on your chest and tits, all ropes and dribbles of hot, thick, white cum as his cock pulses in your hand until he’s spent.

You’re still pumping him hard and fast, until he hisses in distress. “Stop! Mercy, Sister—stop, please.”

Immediately you release him, learning more and more about his body by the second.

He’s huffing and puffing. “I should not have— _oh_ , fuck,” he sighs, losing coherence. “You can,” he gestures as if welcoming something forwards, “take it, Sister. You may swallow what is in your mouth. Your habit will hide the rest,” he pants, running his fingers through his hair.

You do as he says, surprised by the salty taste and thick texture as it slides down your throat. Not _un_ -pleasant, but not entirely pleasant either. Father Garupe, watching you, enjoys it very much.

But then, far too soon, his breathing returns to normal. He sighs and blinks away the foggy lightness you’d expected him to linger in—like you had. Your stomach sinks.

Father Garupe sees your chest deflate, your gaze cast off to the side as he tucks himself away, rights his robes and swiftly rises to standing. He picks up your clothing and holds out a hand to you, helping you to your feet.

You wrap your arms around yourself again, his seed starting to cool and stick on your skin. He will not touch you tonight, yet you stand before him nearly naked—and what’s worse, hopeful—like a fool.

Garupe sighs. “It is too late, Sister. Perhaps even after midnight, now. I cannot keep you here longer.” Gently, he brushes the back of his finger up your cheekbone. “You must rest, and rest well; you cannot continue to be late to your tasks. You cannot draw attention to where you are, or where you are _not_ , nor with whom. Do you understand?”

Keep his secret. Keep _your_ secret—it belongs to the both of you, now. “Yes, Father. I understand.” Your voice is quiet, barely there.

He hands you your habit, your cap and veil waiting in his other hand.

You take it, knowing the aching, torturous need between your thighs—and, elsewhere?—will be like _Hell on Earth_ until you can see him again.


	6. Forbidden Fruit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Florabella has worked a hard day, but Father Garupe eases her toil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyo it me back on my bullshit. I’m dropping a new word in here—introitus—which is another word for opening/entrance that I’d like to later shorten to introit like how clitoris is shortened to clit. See what you think!  
> Meantime I am gonna go do the ice bucket challenge to calm the fuck down from this.

Being on your knees before Father Garupe was nothing compared to being on your knees in the vegetable patch.

The Monastery boasted a substantial garden of root vegetables, and harvesting them was tiresome work. Soil tinted your hands and collected under your nails. The tedium of crouching, standing, and kneeling had fatigued your legs and back after the first hour. You’d never wished to be rid of your dress of devotion—your habit, cap and veil—moreso than in this moment, with the sun at its peak in the sky.

Sweating and digging in the dirt you wonder— _foolish thing_ —what words Father Garupe would have for you if he were to find you, half-undressed and glistening with sweat among the white flowers of the carrot plants.

Your thoughts lingered on him too long, today. Too frequently did the sounds of his pleasure ring in your ears; did a phantom heat and heft warm your palm; did your mouth moisten recalling the tang of his seed on your tongue. With crystalline clarity did images of the Padre in the midst of his bliss surface in your mind: his eyes swirling with a lust as ink-black as midnight, his brow furrowed and mouth dropped open in a wordless gasp, his fingers running through his hair.

All followed by a thought.

A single, vain, heinous thought that sends your stomach fluttering.

_You did that to him._

**XXXX**

In the lavatory, you rinse and scrub dirt from your hands under the faucet while another runs to your left, filling your basin with lukewarm water.

Mother Superior had granted you a small reprieve from your tasks in the garden so that you may refresh yourself before this evening’s meal and prayers. It was a rare offer of kindness—washing was not permitted outside of the weekly bath—that you had accepted with grace and much gratitude.

With care you make your way to your chamber, slow of step so as not to spill any of the precious liquid over the top of your small basin and onto the cobbled stone floor beneath your feet. Even in the shaded cool of the old stone corridors, the heat of exercise thrums through your body and sweat glazes the surface of your skin, making your linen clothes stick.

The walk from the lavatory to your chamber is not a short one, and you are forced to stop every so often, at the sound of footsteps approaching from behind.

Strangely, you find no one in pursuit of you when you look over your shoulder.

Disappointment twinges in the back of your mind. You do not dwell on it—nor _whom_ you secretly wished to find lurking behind you.

You soon approach the heavy oak door to your chamber. You praise your forethought, having left the door slightly ajar to make your return with your full basin all the easier. You nudge the large wooden panel open with your hip, and almost lose your grip on the small ceramic bowl when you see him perched on your bed.

“Father—!”

“Shh,” Father Garupe hushes you gently with a finger to his lips. “Come, Sister,” he whispers.

You step into your chamber and let the weight of the wooden door close itself behind you, recovering from the shock of an unexpected visitor. You know it is small—as one of the newest novices, one of the smallest, most isolated rooms had been bestowed to you—but with Father Garupe inside, it seems to shrink.

He stands, then: as if to prove it. “You are washing, florabella?” he asks, even though he knows. He always knows.

“Yes, Father.” You gulp. “Mother Superior said I—,”

Garupe raises a hand to silence you. An explanation is not necessary. Gently, he takes the basin from your hands, not once looking away from your eyes. Placing the bowl on your small, old wooden desk, he murmurs, “you will let me watch you, no?”

It’s phrased as a question, but it’s not really, and heat flares anew in you—a heat you now know and recognise. A heat you welcome.

“Mmm,” Garupe hums softly. He senses more than docile compliance from you now; there’s a willingness he sees in your darkening eyes. He steps back slowly, smoothing his robes beneath him as he sits on your thin, old mattress.

You pull from a drawer in your small desk a piece of cloth, and dampen it in the water. You wring it and first press it gently to your cheeks and above your brow, and sigh softly at the refreshing relief.

Garupe tilts his head to the side, considering you.

You begin to undress yourself, with Garupe’s words from last night— _None of this coyness_ —floating into your mind. First, you remove your veil and cap, letting your hair free from its confines. You press the damp cloth to the sides of your neck, and sigh appreciatively.

Garupe leans forward, resting his forearms on his thighs.

You let the cloth soak in the basin, and without giving the manoeuvre any potentially prohibitive thought, you lift your heavy habit up over your head and off, standing before the Padre in nothing but your thin linen underskirt and smalls.

The sight is even more decadent for Garupe than it was last night, with the sheen of sweat between your breasts. He is tempted to savour it on his tongue.

You lift the hair at your nape and press the cool cloth there, and Garupe draws in a breath as your breasts rise. The sweat in the pit of your arms shines through the hairs there, and he finds himself inching closer for even a trace of your smell.

You wet the cloth again and pad down your chest slowly, and Garupe tracks your every move. You rinse and dampen the scrap of fabric anew, before trailing it over and beneath your arms, and under your breasts, wiping away your sweat. You soak it a third time, and instead of wringing it out over the basin you squeeze the fabric as it rests on your shoulders, letting cool rivulets run down your back and over your breasts.

“Very good, florabella,” Father Garupe murmurs. His arousal had been steadily building since you’d first walked in the door, and now with the sight of your stiff, budded nipples, he feels himself fully swollen.

You take a steadying breath and place the damp cloth down gently as you gaze at him, your fingers lingering on it.

“Certainly you are not done, Sister?” says Garupe, disbelieving. You catch his gaze flick down to your skirt, and then back up to your eyes. “You cannot be finished, can you?”

You swallow. In front of the Padre, you have not yet been fully naked and bare as the day you were born. With all he had done to you, and what you had done for him, you had managed to remain at least partially clothed.

This, would change all of that—and you realise now why he is truly here. “I—,”

Father Garupe stands, stalling your words. His eyes trace the smattering of water droplets that freckle your ankle-length linen skirt. He steps closer, and as he looks into your eyes, he takes hold of the cloth and dips it into the basin, wetting it with cool water.

Your breath comes deep, but fast, making your bare breasts rise and fall. You try to speak again. “Father—,”

“Are we not, all of us, here to be of service, florabella?”

Words fail you. All you can do is gaze into his rich, molten eyes.

Father Garupe brings the sodden cloth to your chest, and trails it, dripping, down your breast and over your erect nipple.

Your breath catches, the mix of cool temperature and coarse fabric sending tingling pleasure through your nerves.

The Padre does it again, addressing your other nipple and watching your face intently. He sees the way you gulp, the way you lick your sun-bleached lips. He soaks the cloth again, and returning to your first breast, he bathes your nipple with it. He drags the wet cloth over the swollen bud, the cold teasing your nipple stiffer, the rub of the fabric making it bigger.

You breathing becomes longer, laboured, as you try to take in air steadily through your nose.

Father Garupe wets the cloth, and teases your other nipple again. From the underside of your breast he smooths the cloth up over your nipple, and then squeezes the fabric in his hand, letting water trickle down over your breast. He holds the cool, damp cloth to your stiff bud, and thumbs your nipple in circles through the fabric.

“Father!” you whisper, unable to stop it.

Garupe does not respond. He soaks the fabric once more and drags the wet cloth between your breasts, grazing your flesh and dripping cool water across your skin. He drags the cloth between your breasts, trails it over your nipples, sweeps over your buds.

Panting, you glance down and see, as he rubs your nipples with the cloth, they look even bigger, more richly pigmented—and you feel: cold.

A chill runs through you, and Garupe discards the cloth.

He cages you, resting his palms on your desk behind you and locking you between them. He leans down, you see him lick his lips, and he wraps his mouth around your swollen, cold nipple.

“Father,” you moan freely, as the wet heat of his mouth thaws every tense cell in your body. It’s such a relief, the heat, his saliva—it takes you a moment before your mind registers that what he is doing is wrong.

“No,” you gasp and shove his shoulder away.

Garupe pulls off your nipple, his features tinged with amusement. This is a word he has not heard used against him a long while, and he finds your boldness… endearing. “No, florabella?”

“I,” you gulp, embarrassment flushing you with heat, “you. Father, you are not a,” you hush your voice, “a babe. An infant.”

“Ah.”

“I am not—I have no—you cannot—,”

“Hush, Sister.” Garupe dampens the cloth in the basin. He sees you about to object further. “Quiet,” he says, fisting your underskirt and bunching it in his hands, lifting it and exposing your bare legs. Holding the thin linen aloft, he grasps the wash cloth in his other hand and dips beneath your smalls.

You gasp at the sensation, your eyes flaring wide as the Padre trails the cool, wet cloth over your curls and between your labia. “Father—,”

“Trust me, florabella,” Father Garupe says. He sees uncertainty, the anxiety of the unknown in your eyes. “Sweet Sister, when have I led you wrong?”

Your eyes flit between his. A twinge in the back of your mind: he can help you, he can guide you, you are safe with him.

Garupe leans closer, ducking his head to meet your eye level, as he drags the cold, damp cloth over your folds. He whispers, “Do not resist, my girl. Give yourself over to it.”

His words, his hot exhale over your lips, entrance you, your eyes fluttering closed as you surrender to the strokes of his fingers through the coarse fabric. “Cold,” you gasp.

“Mmm,” Garupe hums. His lips at your ear whisper wicked words of sin. “You pleasured your Padre with your mouth, dear girl. You tasted my seed, did you not?”

You suck in a breath, your slippered feet shifting wider of their own accord. “Yes, Father.”

Garupe hums, his hot exhale fanning over the shell of your ear as he teases the lips of your cunt. “You pleased me well, sweet Sister.” He brings one large, warm palm to cup your breast and gently graze your nipple.

“Thank you, Father,” you whisper, feeling equilibrium slip from mind as easily as sand through your cupped hands.

“Did it not grant you some delight, Sister?” Garupe teases your nipple between his thumb and forefinger. “Did it not entice some,” he dips deeper, pressing into your cunt with the tips of his cloth-covered fingers, “desire… in you?”

Your back arches at his touch, your chest rising. “Yes, Father.”

“I confess you have stirred in me… an appetite, sweet girl.” He brings the cloth to the bowl and soaks it again, before dipping back into your thin linen smallclothes and rubbing the wet, cool fabric over your cunt. He murmurs, “Indulge me,” and ducks down to lap at your swollen nipple once more.

You moan from the pleasure of it—the warm, silky flat of his tongue burnishing your bud—and let the tingling warmth radiate from the peak of your breast throughout your whole body, and mingle with the cool wetness teasing between your legs.

Garupe hums and looks up at you through his lashes, and when he murmurs his plush pink lips graze your nipple. “Would you deny me these pleasures, florabella?” He pauses his gentle stroking and cups the damp cloth to your cunt.

Your last shred of rationality clings to a crevice in your mind by its fingertips, rapidly losing grip. “Are they pleasures, Father? Or are they sins?”

Father Garupe half-smirks at you with glinting eyes, and your insides swoop and flutter. He murmurs, low and deep, “What concern are sins to people like us, florabella?” He presses a chaste kiss to your budded nipple. “To people like you,” he takes one of your hands in his and brings it to his mouth, to suck on the tips of two of your fingers, “and me?”

Your pulse pounds, and you cannot look away from the roiling desire in his dark eyes.

Garupe senses your seduction is almost complete. He pulls the cloth from your smalls and tosses it onto your desk, then shoves back in and holds your hot, bare cunt in his hot, large palm. He lets his fingers catch in your curls, and the tip of his middle finger grazes your opening as the heel of his palm presses into your clit.

You gasp, “Father!” as the sudden change of sensation takes you by surprise.

Garupe leans up and over you, looking down at you. “I wish for your sweet flavour to coat my tongue.” His black eyes flit between yours. “I long to taste your ripeness, dear Sister.” He ducks to your ear and murmurs, “Let me eat of your fruit, florabella. Let me sup of your nectar.”

Words cease to prattle along inside your mind. If not for the Padre holding you at the juncture of your thighs, you would not believe yourself corporeal, would not conceive yourself of this Earth anymore. Your every sense and instinct is consumed by Father Garupe, answered only by a deep and persistent pulsing in your cunt.

He feels it in his palm.

Hearing no reply, Garupe brings his face to yours again. He sees your blown pupils, your glazed eyes, your parted lips, and he leans slowly closer, until your mouths threaten to graze against each other. “Yes?” is all he says, his exhale breathing into your mouth and fanning over your lips.

This is how he casts his spell. You float, dreamlike, bathing in the illusory state of liquid consciousness he cloaks you with. “Yes, Father.”

Garupe drinks your assent, pulling your breath into his lungs as his hands join at the back of your skirt, pulling the fastening buttons from their eyelets one by precious one. The linen drops to the floor, and he purrs into your mouth, rumbling the promise of wickedness and decadence as he pulls at the ties holding your smalls together on your hips: “Good girl.”

Your head tilts for him, following an inexplicable desire to taste the inside of his mouth with yours. You rise closer and closer to his lips as if beckoned by him, like he is the whole of the Earth and you are merely it’s single, solitary Moon.

“On your bed,” Garupe says, stepping back from you.

You follow, entranced, for a moment—before stepping on liquid legs to your rickety old wooden cot.

It’s not until you perch on the edge of the thin mattress and Garupe looms above you that you realise how utterly naked you are before him. He is so grand in his long, flowing, black robes, cinched at his waist with a linen belt from which hangs his ornate wooden rosary. His thick, dark hair falls in unruly waves, tucked behind his glorious ears as his bewitching eyes bore into your own.

Your tormentor. Saviour. Snake. Sovereign.

Garupe clasps his hands behind his back and says, “further, Sister. Sit back.”

You shuffle backwards on your bed, holding yourself up with flat palms and locked arms, keeping your eyes trained on his all the while.

“Widen your legs, dear girl,” Garupe murmurs, “show your Padre your cunt.”

“Yes, Father,” you whisper, too attuned to his commands. It’s easy, now: you extinguish the twin horrors of embarrassment and modesty as if you were blowing out the lit wick of a candle with a single puff of breath. You spread your legs wide, as far apart as you know he likes, and tilt your hips toward the Heavens.

You present yourself to him, in every possible way.

“Verry good, Sister,” he croons, stepping between your parted legs—and then, he tugs up his robes, and Father Garupe kneels.

Your insides flip and flutter. You are just slightly higher than his eye level, and your heart beats wildly in your chest. Of all the ways he has possessed you—this tall, slender, dark man taking hold of your mind, body and spirit—he has not yet peeled you bare and consumed you with his mouth, and the Holy Father looks set to gorge himself fat on your cunt.

You swallow, and open your mouth to speak.

“Hush now, florabella.” Garupe smiles with his eyes, leans down, and blows a ribbon of cool air over your folds.

“Father,” you whisper, hips jolting at the teasing, breathy caress.

“Shh,” he soothes you, shuffling closer to your bed on his knees, inching closer to the apex of your thighs. Garupe leans in and inhales your natural perfume, and the delectable mix of musk and sweat is one of the finest fragrances he’s ever had the pleasure of sampling.

He draws your scent into his lungs, his eyes falling gently closed.

You are spread out for him in a way you’ve never been, and it sends a thrill through you to realise that not only do you desire him, but Father Garupe deeply desires you. The promise of your body has put a man on his knees for you, and a potent sense of power swirls through your veins as dark and deadly as a poison.

You want his touch, and in return he craves to touch you. Could it be possible that as much as the Padre has tempted and tested you, you have corrupted him in turn?

Father Garupe brings his hands up to spread your curl-covered flesh with thick, warm fingers and expose more of your plump cunt to his ravenous gaze. “How shall I start, sweet Sister?” he murmurs lowly, his breath fanning over pussy lips.

It’s the same question he’d asked you last night, mirrored. He’s taught you the answer. Over the top of your thudding pulse your voice wavers when you answer him. “With a kiss, Father.”

“Mmm,” Garupe hums in agreement, and then drops his voice to a whisper as he looks up at you from between your legs, “I shall kiss your cunt, florabella?”

Delight of a wild, wicked flavour swells in your whole being, and for a moment you don’t realise that you are merely nodding, until Father Garupe smirks and quirks a brow at you. His thumbs trail gently up your swollen folds and he hums, “hm?”

Your voice is breathless as you find the words to reply, “yes, Father. Kiss my cunt. Please.”

Garupe’s features turn wolfish as he murmurs, “very well, Sister.” His eyes are trained on yours as he presses his plush, rosey-pink lips to your cunt in soft, gentle caresses. His kisses are slow and delicate but blazing a path in their wake as he trails up, up, up your pretty vulva.

When Garupe reaches your swollen clit he pauses, breathing over your plump bud for a few breaths as he stares into your eyes. Skirting a whisper he murmurs softly, “and now, your little floret. Yes, Sister?”

“Yes, Father,” you answer on a breath, unable to take your eyes from his glittering obsidian, the hardened molten lava in his orbs as crisp and crystalline as glass, stuttering your heartbeat.

Father Garupe places a long, soft, delicate kiss to your engorged clit, and pleasure flares in your nerves. You gasp at the gentle touch of his lips and he does it again, lavishing your bud with kiss after generous, lazy kiss as if he has no other earthly care in this world.

Your fists furl into the sheets, their stiff scratchiness turned soft by the damp heat of your palms. You feel it bubbling up, first from your chest, then inching up your throat, and try as you might to control it with quick, forceful breaths—when his tongue grazes your clit the sound of your pleasure falls free of your lips with a deep, breathy sigh. “ _Oh_ , Father.”

Garupe hums into his kisses, and trails back down your sensitive folds. He spies your excitement leaking from inside you, slick and glossy and soaking into the downy curls below your opening, where your fleshy labia meet again. Garupe gazes at the sight, his own arousal pulsing steadily beneath his many layers, his cock pulsing long and thick and full, he’s only just kissed you.

He flicks his gaze to yours. “I will need you to tell me, Sister.”

Your pulse pounds in your ears, and you almost don’t hear him. Regardless, you don’t understand him.

Garupe spots the slight crease to your brow. “My mouth will be… occupied,” he says. “I will not be able to ask you. Can you do that?”

You swallow, and stammer. “I. I’ll try, Father.”

The Holy Father spreads your labia wider, parting your hairs to further reveal every fold and crevice of your vulva. “When I lick you,” he pauses, wetting his lips, “it feels like this.” Garupe leans closer once more, points his tongue and trails the hot, wet tip of it up one of your lips from your opening to your hood, dragging your cyprine and his saliva up, and up, and up, slowly. When he licks over your clit and off, he purrs, “Is it good, florabella?”

“Yes, Father.” You can almost feel yourself dripping.

“If you want that, Sister, what do you tell me?”

You try to steady your breaths. “Lick me.”

“Mm?”

“L-lick my cunt, Father.”

Garupe’s dark eyes smoulder at you as he presses closer your core, and he follows your command. Mirroring his earlier ministrations, the pointed tip of his tongue glides up the other lip of your cunt, and his soft, plush lips graze your hot, swollen flesh as he delicately traces the fleshy outline of your cunt.

As his tongue slides over your clit you moan, you tell him, like he’d told you to do. “Oh, yes, that. That feels _good_ , Father.”

Father Garupe hums from the back of his throat, pleased with the feel and the taste of your cunt on his tongue and moreso, with the way you express your satisfaction. He flattens his tongue and licks over your vulva with delicate dedication, lapping at your labia with the hot, slippery plain of his large tongue all the way from your introitus to your clitoris.

It’s hotter and wetter than his fingers, heightened by the puff of his breath. The slide of his tongue as he laves your lips smears his spit and your slick into a slippery mess. He trails his tongue upwards, lolls the pointed tip around your clit and then slides back down your folds before beginning again in a fluid, continuous movement.

You shiver and moan at the dizzying sensations of his hot exhale and slick tongue, and the realisation that he has placed the Body of Christ on the same tongue that now licks at your cunt sends you reeling.

“Father,” you gasp, “that’s good. Your t-tongue is, sso good.”

“Mmmh,” Garupe hums as he swirls your clit in circles before licking up over it. “Now, florabella,” he murmurs, “to suck.” Garupe closes his lips around your clit and gently sucks on the swelled, plump bud, drawing it into his mouth and letting his tongue graze against the bottom of it in rhythmic pulses as he holds it between his lips.

“Father!” you moan, pleasure spiking in your nerves and flooding your body with heat. “Oh, Ffather.”

Garupe slips from your clit and mutters, “how does it feel, Sister?” before sucking your biggest bundle of nerves back into his mouth, wrapping his lips tight around your bud and sucking on it.

A loud moan falls from your lips before you have cognition enough to answer him. Your breaths come in hard pants as you stutter shakily through your words. “That feels good, Father—so good when you suck my clit.”

Garupe pauses. “Yes. That. Sweet girl, tell me.” He sucks on your clit again, all lips and tongue and hot, wet suction.

You moan your praises breathily, telling him to suck, telling him how good it feels as your elbows and knees feel more and more like liquid.

Garupe licks over your clit as he sucks on the small, swollen blossom, and he delights as your thighs twitch in time with the roll of his tongue. “Hmh,” he chuckles, granting you some small reprieve, “my florabella’s little floret. You like for your Padre to suck on this, yes?”

You gasp, “yes, Padre,” lost to the thrumming pleasure in your nerves, the sizzling heat in your core. “Please, Father. Lick me. Suck me.”

The words that fall from your lips—he is certain they will fill his every daydream, flavour his every illusion.

Garupe licks up along and between the parted lips of your cunt, the tip of his tongue dipping into your introitus to catch more of your silky cyprine. He trails from inside you, up your fleshy folds to swipe left to right over your clit. He sucks on your stiff bud, kissing and licking it, and then glides his tongue back down to taste more of your essence and smear it all over your cunt on his next trail upwards.

Your world spins in the delirium of pleasure, so much so that your locked arms tremble and you drop to your elbows, your head tipping back as you let loose a moan of pure and profound elation.

“One or two, florabella?” Father Garupe asks you.

He speaks onto your cunt and his hairs tickle your sensitive flesh—a sensation you realise had been teasing you just as much as his lips and tongue and breath had been. “Two, Father.”

Garupe smirks. How quick and complete and ultimately, _simple_ your corruption was: you know what he’s asking without him even needing to really, properly, ask it. He teases you. “Are you sure, dear Sister?”

You lift your head back up to lock eyes with him, panting softly. “Fingers. Yes Father.”

“Is that impatience on your tongue, florabella?”

“No, Father.”

“No?” he quirks a brow at you, amused, “could you be lying to me, Sister?”

“Yes, Father.” You’re breathless, lost to your own need.

Garupe laughs, a full, genuine sound of humour and levity and he doesn’t let himself realise—stops himself from discovering—how dangerous this particular entanglement he’s arranged for himself may be.

Smiling, he spreads your slit apart at your mons and with his other hand, teases your slick opening with the tips of two fingers. You moan, and he tuts, “Sister Flora,” affecting his voice to sound displeased and unimpressed. “Were you any other girl you must needs seek forgiveness for that sin.”

You roll your hips, and his fingertips graze the lips of your cunt as you whisper desperately, “Father please.”

“Hmm,” Garupe hums, as if he is considering you, “yet you lay before your Padre without a shred of repentance.” He strokes your wet, hot introitus and collects your cyprine on his fingertips, and where he spreads your labia at the apex of your slit, baring your precious, swollen floret, he narrows his fingers, putting the slightest, subtlest pressure on your stiff, pulsing clit.

There are words he’s hoping to draw from your throat by doing this, words from both the depths and the surface of your mind all at once—and he needs them now. Time is getting on, and he has places to be, after all.

“What,” you huff, puff, hoping to draw him back to the concerted manner of his devotions he’d previously bestowed upon you. “What,” you swallow, “concern are sins to people like us, Padre?”

Father Garupe smirks, murmurs, “good girl, florabella— _mmh_ ,” and dips two fingers into your cunt as he sucks your clit into his mouth—and hums.

“Father!” You cry out in pleasure as his fingers rub up against the soft, slippery walls of your cunt. His thick digits subtly stretch you, and after that first deep plunge Garupe sinks his fingers only halfway into your cunt before he draws them back and pushes into you again.

“Yes, Father. That’s good, Father,” you moan as the teasing friction sends pleasure surging through your veins, igniting your nerves and heating your skin with the lustful chase for release.

Garupe purrs onto your flesh. He flicks his tongue up over your clit as he works his fingers in deeper with every probing thrust. Your panting and moaning sets him ablaze, sends the stiffness in his blood- and need-filled cock to aching.

“Your fingers,” you sigh, “F-fahh.”

Garupe pauses for just enough time to mumble, “yes, Sister?” before he lashes your clit with his tongue again, pumping ever more of the thick length of his two fingers into your tight cunt.

“Father yes,” you gasp, “your fingers. Yes. So good.”

Garupe grunts onto your plump, pulsing bud, plunging the full length of his digits into your hot, wet cunt—and faster faster faster now.

The sensations are too much. Father Garupe licks and sucks your clit, his whiskers teasing and tickling your delicate flesh. He pumps his upturned fingers into your tight, wet heat at a pace that will soon cramp his arm—but he’s mindless to it.

His sole purpose in this moment, is to make you cum all over his tongue and fingers.

For a brief moment Garupe adjusts his fingers on your fuzzy outer labia, exaggerating the exposure of your clit while he fills your cunt with his fingers. With renewed vigour his mouth works over your stiff bud: hard flicks with the point of his tongue while his soft, plush lips wrap around the plump, engorged blossom and suck it.

His fierce attention trips your pleasure, heightening and sharpening it to a brilliant, beautiful peak. Your muscles seize, and before you can warn him your orgasm crashes down upon you, euphoria shuddering through your body as you pulse and shake and clench and moan.

Garupe doesn’t let up as you roll and rock and tremble through the spasms of pleasure. Your clit pulses and twitches between his lips and your cunt contracts around his digits, coating them slick with another wave of hot, silky cum.

When your thighs start to jerk from sensitivity, Garupe eases off. He gently withdraws from your slick, puffy cunt and presses soft, chaste kisses to your tender clit.

Garupe senses he is getting carried away by the feeling. He stops himself. He stands from his knees with a grunt of soreness—in both his knees and his groin—and sucks your essence from his digits as he looks over your glowing, loose-limbed form.

You collect yourself and sit up on your old mattress, reaching for the tie of his robes.

“Sister,” Garupe waves your hand away, though his cock throbs, begging for attention. “I must prepare for evening Mass.”

“Oh.” Reality comes flooding back to your mind. You recall the basin, the wash cloth, the reason you are here—the reason _he_ is here. Tonight’s meal and prayers are soon; but, silly girl, you sit on your bed, naked, loose from orgasm, and hoping to suck the Holy Father’s cock.

“I came here for this and this alone, sweet Sister,” Garupe murmurs, tracing the line of your lower lip with the tip of his thumb. “We have not the leisure of time today, my florabella.”

You look up at him. This is how it must be, it seems: flashes and figments. “I understand, Father.”

One corner of Garupe’s mouth tugs subtly upwards in a small smile, and for the briefest of moments, he blinks and his features soften.

Swiftly then he turns away from you and heads for the heavy oak door—but his tall, broad-shouldered form stops abruptly. Garupe reaches within his robes, and without looking back at you he places a small rectangular chunk of something wrapped in thin linen gauze on your desk, near to your wash basin.

With his head over his shoulder, eyes cast downward he says, “For the next time you wash, bella,” and promptly leaves your chamber.

The wooden door closes with a thud and the metal lock and round iron handle rattle. The sounds are deafening as Father Garupe disappears, all trace of his presence vanishing as his robe-clad form slips from your room.

All trace, except for perhaps, the gift he left behind for you.

It takes you a moment before you can stand: your gaze is transfixed on the small bundle resting on the distressed surface of your old wooden desk. There is a part of you that almost, almost, does not want to accept it. You push yourself off your mattress and pad the few short steps to cross your room, and the nature of the small thing becomes clearer now.

Single sprigs each of lavender and rosemary are secured by a length of twine, wrapped many times around the middle of it. The gauzy linen fabric around it shines with a subtle sheen, and you can see through it to what looks like more tiny lilac and indigo petals embedded in the sand-brown block.

The finery of it… you hesitate to even look at it, let alone touch it. But Father Garupe had placed this here, in your chambers: had left this here for you.

You pick it up and hold it to your nose, inhaling the floral, earthy scent. It’s rich and earthy, and weighty in your palm. Your life at the Monastery renders you ignorant of the cost of things, but the expense of this item is obvious. You pluck the herbal sprigs, already planning how you may fit them—hidden from sight—to your pillow, and pull at the twine to loosen the sheer wrapping.

Dipping your finger in the cool water remaining in your basin, you rub a patch into a corner of the heavy, scented block.

Small suds form under your fingertip, and your best guess—the highest hope you’d dared to even think of—is confirmed.

Father Garupe has obtained and gifted to you, the supreme luxury of soap.


End file.
